In collecting old pictures of S. Mariani & Sons Hardware at 23^rdand Florida Streets in San Francisco, I noticed an old fountain that was once out front.  In many of these pictures, the S of S. Mariani & Sons himself, Stephen, was standing next to it proudly. 

Photo used with permission of Carl Pisaturo, http://carlpisaturo.com

I’ve many times visited the home of the Mariani family at this location.  Stephen Mariani opened two hardware stores in 1875.  When the stores closed in the 1950s, they literally just closed.  The store was left downstairs of the home and just all closed up.  We used to go into the hardware store and play with the old cash register and tools.  My dad even had some items I inherited when he died—business cards, a brush, and a pencil.

Throughout my lifetime of visits, there was no fountain out front on the sidewalk.  So what happened to it?  When I was combing through items at the California Historical Society in San Francisco in March I found this newspaper clipping (newspaper not named or dated):

New Park Gets an Old Fountain

An unusual antique fountain of broad multi-purpose design—it was made to serve horses, humans and dogs alike-- has been presented to the State for inclusion in the new Victorian Park at the foot of Hyde street. 

The fluted cast-iron fountain has stood since 1881 in front of the old Mariani hardware store at 23rd and Florida streets.

It was donated for the State Park by the sons and daughters of Stephen and Victoria Mariani, who came to San Francisco in 1862 and established their store in 1875.

One of the daughters, Mrs. Stella Bryant, who still lives at 23rd and Florida, said the fountain was cast in Oakland in 1872 and acquired by her father nine years later.

Charles DeTurk, State Director of Parks and Recreation, said the fountain “reflects all the ornate grandeur of its period.”

I decided to look into this fountain and, using my best friend, Google, I found this website:http://aboutinthecity.blogspot.com/2010/04/forgotten-fountain.html.  Armed with the newspaper article, directions, and the picture from the About in the City blog, I took a trip to San Francisco on BART last weekend, determined to see if the fountain was indeed still there.

I got off BART at the Embarcadero stop and walked up Embarcadero towards Ghiradelli Square, stopping for a bit at Pier 35, where I walked across the street to the corner of Kearny and Bay.  Why did I stop there? 

That is the spot that the California pioneer Giuseppe (Joseph) Mariani, father to Stephen Mariani, was fatally injured in a blasting accident in 1871. 

May 11, 1871, Daily Evening Bulletin, San Francisco, CA

I walked across to the pier and sat there looking at the boats in the water.  Is that what Giuseppe was doing there?  Watching the boats?  He was a house painter, so I don’t think he was working.  I think he was thinking just like I was.  As I sat there on fancy redwood benches staring into the Bay, I was interrupted by a “vet looking for some lunch money.” 

Giuseppe was there just after the Civil War.  Were there Civil War vets asking for spare change while that dynamite was being set?  Were there children chasing seagulls, couples holding hands?  What was he thinking about those moments before his life was interrupted permanently?

I got a bit sad, so I continued on.  I passed the street performers and foreign families sightseeing at Pier 39.  I passed the smell of crab and sourdough at Fisherman’s Wharf.  I passed the other smells of stagnant water and homelessness of Aquatic Park and there it was.

The Fountain.

I placed my hand on it in reverence.  This fountain was in Oakland and shipped to San Francisco.  This fountain was touched by S. Mariani.  This fountain was touched by Vera and her siblings.  This fountain was touched by shoppers in the hardware store and passersby.  Possibly even my dad.  As I thought of each of them, I imagined seeing them there with me.  Only they all were in black and white like the photos of the fountain in front of 23^rdand Florida.  I was in color and so was the fountain.  And so was the sleeping lady on the nearby bench, lying there around MY fountain, as if MY fountain were a stove giving off the heat of 140 years. 

I sat on one of the surrounding benches and just looked at it.  I admired the different drinking spots for horses and dogs.  I wondered how it was filled.  I think through the top, but clearly no water other than that from the skies had been in it for years. Now it was leaves, gum and cigarette butts.  I cleaned out the largest drinking spot of the debris and then wrote down the words from the small plaque at the bottom, silently promising my fountain that I’d be back to clean her again someday soon.

“A gift to the State of California by the pioneer Mariani family.  The grandfather, James Mariani, arrived on these shores in 1852.  Presented in the memory of the father, Stephen Mariani, who purchased the fountain in 1881 to place in front of his establishment at 23^rd and Florida.  November 1961.”  The grandfather was Joseph or Giuseppe, not James.  He came in 1862 not 1852.  But the rest is, as they say, history.

Jack was our 17-year-old.  Our cat from Oregon.  We picked him out on Dad’s Mountain one Thanksgiving trip and brought him home as little cat.  He grew into a great big fat cat and amused us for many years.  Jack wasn’t the smartest of cats.  His inbreeding showed through in his slight naiveté and propensity to vomit when he could see the white at the bottom of his food dish.  But he was my Pumpkin, so nicknamed for being my Thanksgiving Kitten.  He was my purring cat who followed me into the bathroom every single morning.  I’d pet him and he’d purr.  He’d sit on the toilet for petting while I brushed my teeth and then he’d join me in the kitchen for his breakfast while I made my coffee. We’d go our separate ways after this, until later when we’d meet back up.

Jack liked to vomit.  Much and often.  Through his life, this was his hobby.  Vomit and purring.  He also liked to lick when getting scratched.  Lick lick lick.  STOP LICKING ME! I’d yell at him in frustration.  And then I’d pet him some more and he’d contain his licking for a bit. 

Jack slept for at least half his night each night with his ass curled into my stomach.  He didn’t like to be held there or cuddled.  Just his ass, my stomach.  And purring and licking. 

Over the past year, Jack lost a lot of his fat. Rather than people laughing at him, they just thought he looked normal. I knew it was old catness, though.  Last weekend, his stomach got big and hard. He acted normal, but he couldn’t be.  His stomach looked like he had a litter of unmoving kittens.  Last night he wandered a lot.  He was with me, with William, with Jones. 

This morning, I asked Marc to take him to the vet.  Marc thought he was constipated (he also has a propensity for this), but I knew it wasn’t.  I knew it was bad.  This was my living link to Dad’s Mountain and I knew it was over and that it was time to say goodbye.  Which I did last night while we listened to the thunder and this morning in the bathroom during our morning time together.

Rest in Peace, Jack.  Grampa has a lap and a pain-free petting hand waiting for you. 

My local genealogical society, Livermore-Amador GenealogicalSociety, asked two of us to be speakers for the May meeting.  The topic was Self-Publication Process.  Jane Southwick and I both have books that we wrote, but we both went about publishing two different ways.  The gist of our presentation was showing the audience two different routes to get to the same end result (although Jane’s was much nicer looking!).

I enjoyed speaking and I have to say that I felt like I was in my living room talking to family.  It’s such a warm, loving, supportive group and I love sharing with them.  Jane did a terrific job sharing how she worked with Stories to Tell Books.  What most impressed me about Jane was her speaking style.  She used a full written speech, but didn’t read it.  She was just wonderful with eye contact and clear speaking.  I was very proud and in awe.  Top that off with the amazing book she wrote and all I can say is that she is my hero.

The editor of our newsletter, Roots Tracer, asked Jane and I to write an article of our speeches for those that don’t attend.  Once I do that, I will link to it here.

Here are Jane and I speaking:

Memorial Day is to honor those who have died in war.  I’m lucky that many of my ancestors seem to have either missed serving or survived.  But in the past couple of years I have learned about my grandfather’s cousin, Howard Albert Conner, who died in World War II in a plane crash in Panama. 

Howard was born on August 23, 1918 in Huron County, South Dakota, just six months younger than my grandfather.  While he was in high school in Huron, South Dakota, he worked at the theater and in the shoe store. 

There is a write-up about Howard in the South Dakota World War II Memorial site.  The site is, “…dedicated to the tens of thousands of South Dakota men and women who contributed to the victory in World War II. Today, we know them as our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.”

It is my goal in this post to make sure that even though Howard has no descendents of his own to remember him, he has many of us, both in and out of the Conner family,  who remember and thank him.  He was and always will be important.

Front (left to right):Harriet Conner, Fern Conner (Grampa’s sisters)

Middle (left to right):Pierre Conner (GRAMPA!), Howard Conner

Back (left to right): Lucille Conner, Irene Conner (Howard’s sisters)

Left to right:Pierre Conner, Howard Conner

Left to right:William Conner (grandfather to Pierre Conner), Howard Conner, Lucille Conner, Hattie Price (grandmother to Pierre Conner)

From http://mva.sd.gov/sdwwiimemorial/SubPages/profiles/Display.asp?P=363:

In Memory of
2^nd Lieutenant
Howard Albert Conner
Huron, South Dakota
Beadle County
August 23, 1918 – March 26, 1944
Killed in Plane Crash near Cape Pacora, Republic of Panama

  

Howard Albert Conner was born August 23, 1918 in Huron, South Dakota.  Howard was the third child of Albert and Mary Jane Conner.  Howard had two sisters, Mrs. Marvin R. Murphy and Mrs. Loran R. Blackford.  Howard grew up in Huron, South Dakota, attending Huron High School, graduating  in 1937.  While he was in school, he worked at the Huron theatre and as a clerk at Tunnell’s Shoe Store for one year.

He entered the Army in February 1941 taking his training at Fort Snelling, Minnesota and transferred to Fort Lewis, Washington and in August 1942 to Camp Gerber, Oklahoma.  He served with a tank destroyer battalion until January 1943 when he transferred to the Army Air Force.  On November 3, 1943, he graduated at Aloe Army Air Field, Victoria, Texas receiving a commission as a second lieutenant.  From there he went to Panama where he completed a transitional course at Sixth Air Force Fighter Command School.  He was assigned to a fighter squadron in the Caribbean area.

2^ndLieutenant Howard Conner perished in the Republic of Panama on March 26, 1944.  His plane crashed near Cape Pacora, Republic of Panama, which is in the Panama Canal Zone.  He is buried at the Riverside Cemetery, Huron, South Dakota.  His name is also inscribed on a granite obelisk in front of the Huron Public Library. This memorial remembers “those who served and those who died.”

This entry was respectfully submitted by Brandi Levtzow, 9^th Grade, Redfield High School, Redfield, South Dakota, May 17, 2002. Among the sources of information for this entry were an application for a SD veteran’s bonus payment and newspaper clippings.

Back when I was nine, we lived in the middle of nowhere.  I had only my classmates and my little brother for friends.  My class consisted of twelve students, grades 2 through 8.  Only one other student my grade and he was a boy.  My little brother had a triple-whammy of a friend strike in that he was not only a boy, but younger.  And my brother.  So the characters in my books became my friends.

Nancy Drew was my first book friend.  Although she was older, richer and ran in a difference crowd than I did, I came to adore Nancy, Bess and George.  Although George once caused a family argument.  After my second or third Nancy Drew book, I realized that I had no idea how to pronounce G-E-O-R-G-E.  I asked and an argument started when they didn’t believe me that George was a girl.  It was my first taste of not being believed, even though I was so sure. 

I was with Nancy on all her adventures. I read as often as possible.  Sometimes even more often than possible.  My parents would tell me to stop reading and go outside to play.   I’d go, but sneak my book with me.  I got tired of the wasted time biking somewhere so I rigged a book holder to my handlebars.  Then I could read while biking our dirt roads.  Our house had no electricity and thus a flashlight was brought to bed each night.  My parents would wonder why my batteries died faster than my brother’s.  It was because I often was up into the wee hours reading under the covers… only to rise early to get through the next chapter.

In school, my book reports were all Nancy Drew books.  We made a book as a school project and I made mine Nancy Drew related.  The public library was two hours away and we visited only twice a month.  I would check out the maximum number of books (five) and they’d all be Nancy Drew.  One trip, I stayed home and gave my parents strict instructions to get five Nancy Drew books and a chart of which ones I had not yet read.  They came home with one Nancy Drew book and The Yearling, requesting that I broaden my reading knowledge.  I still can’t even talk about that dreadful day and I still have not read The Yearling, nor can I speak its title without making a face.

Once I went through the whole Nancy Drew series, I ventured to another section of the library series shelves and noticed books that looked like Nancy Drew.  Cherry Ames.  Cherry was a nurse.  In every book, she was a different kind of nurse.  Student Nurse, Army Nurse, Cruise Nurse.  I of course read two and then wanted to be a nurse. My freshman year of high school I even was in a club for future medical professionals.  That’s when I found out nurses give shots and clean up poop.  And that was the end of my Cherry Ames nursing career.  The Cherry Ames books were hard to find, though, so I read only four or five of the series.

For my eleventh birthday, I received a $20 check from my grandfather.  Mom took me to K-Mart in Milpitas, California to pick something out and I chose the first four Trixie Belden books.  I remember Mom questioning me.  “Are you sure you want books?  Not toys or a game or clothes?  Books?  Really?” and I really did.  I read those first four books, Secret of the Mansion, Red Trailer Mystery, Gatehouse Mystery and Mysterious Visitor, over and over again.

Trixie and Honey and Jim and Brian and Mart and Bobby and all the others traveled with me on the move to Minnesota.  And the move back a few months later.  I had only four books, but I made good use of them, over and over again.  Our libraries didn’t have Trixie Belden books, so after moving back to California, I started earning money babysitting.  I’d take that money to Stacey’s bookstore at Stanford Shopping Center and spend it collecting the series.  I even re-purchased Secret of the Mansion, as I’d loaned it out never to be seen again.

Every bit of the Trixie Belden series is imbedded in my mind.  I can close my eyes right now, over 30 years later, and picture Trixie’s home, Honey’s mansion, and the trailer they had a number of adventures in.  I can picture Nancy Drew’s house, her father’s briefcase, her car.  I can close my eyes and see Lex admiring Cherry’s nurse uniform and the hopeful faces of her injured and sick patients watching her approach.

The feeling I get though when I close my eyes and imagine the time I spent with all these friends makes me glow.  Real friends are great.  But real friends who you can share books with?  Priceless.

P.S.  Earlier this year, I got tired of my ten-year-old daughter only reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.  I assigned her the first Trixie book, Secret of the Mansion, to read for school.  Now she can’t say Trixie Belden without making a face and I do believe that she will never pick another up again.  Or any of my other suggestions.  Sorry about The Yearling, Mom.  Now I know how you felt.  

Dear William,

Today you are seven years old. Seven. Seven years ago right now I was looking down at your adorable little baby man face, thinking how lucky I was. Today, seven years later, I look over at you playing Minecraft with Signa, and I think the same thing. I am so very lucky. You are cute, smart, funny, sweet, and wonderful. Every day, I get comments and acknowledgement of how great you are. But I don't need other people to tell me that.

This year you have taken up swimming and piano, doing an amazing job at both. I'm very proud of and how well you do at everything you try. And even more proud of you for just trying in the first place.

It's been a tough year for me, Bubba, but having you in my life has made it a little less tough and a little more fun. You bring joy to everything, including your momma.

I love you, Big Stink.

-Momma

 

Posted with Blogsy

Dear Dad,

Today you would be turning 70.  It would be a big one and it’s on a weekend, so we’d likely be there with you to celebrate. 

You’d wake up grumpy trying to show us that you didn’t think it was a big deal.  We’d go for a picnic or go to the river and I’d catch you smiling even though you were pretending to read the newspaper.   

The kids would be playing, you’d be reading and smiling, and I’d be nearby appreciating it all, smiling on the inside at the rightness of the world.

We’d go to a fancy dinner where you’d find something to complain about at first, but by the end, you would be laughing and telling everyone that you were 70 today. 

Instead, though, I’m far away from you, unable to celebrate with you on your big day.  I hope you are celebrating somehow, somewhere.  Maybe with all the grandparents I’m researching.  Maybe with all the friends and family I’ve lost.

Whatever you are doing, wherever you are, I hope you know that there is no one on Earth or in the heavens missing you more than I do right now.

Love,

Debbie