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Writer's picture: kiehartkiehart

Updated: Jul 29, 2022

I traveled to San Francisco, but it was not the San Francisco of the ‘70s that Valerie longed to share with me.


In 2008, Eileen and I looked over the bay to Alcatraz Island and guided our rented bicycles across the Golden Gate Bridge’s span. According to the brochure, its span measures one point seven miles. We paused mid-way to gaze at the horizon.


A man approached and said, “Did you know it takes four seconds to fall from the deck to the water? You’re going 75 miles an hour when you hit the surface.”


“No kidding?” I shook my head, astonished that a stranger would tell another stranger such trivia.

We pedaled across the span—which according to the brochure, measures one point seven miles—to Sausalito for lunch.


Later I walked with Eileen through Pacific Heights and, from a metal chair in a sidewalk café, watched the foot traffic in the Castro as the waitress served cappuccinos. We played tourist roaming the neighborhoods, the Trolley Car Museum, and the twisty Lombard Street. We sampled chocolates at Ghirardelli’s’ and tossed some wrinkled bills into a street performer’s upturned beret.


On Fisherman’s Wharf, a vendor handed me a flower for a dollar; I passed the long-stemmed rose to Eileen as I kissed her cheek.


I can speculate that if I had been a San Francisco resident immersed in the culture and neighborhoods as Valerie wanted, it would have been familiar on a personal level. There would be memories of a life with friends gathering and holidays shared. That wasn’t the case.

The memories made with Eileen are the only memories of San Francisco.

Still, San Francisco is a charming city to visit.


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Updated: Jul 29, 2022




As a teenager in the 1960s, I hitchhiked a lot. Back then, we all thought it was safe, and, it was the fastest way to get from here to there. For me, in North-Eastern Pennsylvania, here was Jermyn, and there was Scranton. Less than thirty minutes separated the here and there: 15.9 miles on Route 6, pass the mall and restaurants and car dealerships; or, 9.2 miles 'through the towns' that were linked together by their main streets.

I gave my standard I’ll-be-with-Annie alibi to my parents (Annie had my back on days like today) and didn't stick my thumb out until I got to Mattise’s Dairy, hoping to God that anyone who knew me wouldn’t be driving in my direction. A pick up at Mattise's pretty much guaranteed the driver would be going through the towns. I loved the adventure of hitchhiking. Still, I never told my parents; I knew they would not approve.

A beat-up car stopped and as I opened the door, a smelly odor invaded my nostrils. I jumped inside. The man’s clothes were filthy and his long, greasy hair parted in the middle revealed a fresh cut on his forehead. “Where ya goin’ honey?”

My arm rested on the door handle. “Ummmm, Archbald will be good.” A lie, because my defense system kicked in and my chest tightened.

A few minutes later, he pulled over. His dirty fingernails clutched the steering wheel, he snarled, “You cudda walked here.”

I mumbled thanks and slammed the door. Creep.

When he pulled out of view, I stuck my thumb out again. A polished silver sedan pulled to the curb. I sat inside and breathed the clean air which held a faint scent of Old Spice. I told the driver I was on my way to Scranton. He was quiet. He had pretty blue eyes, sapphire like Auntie Heley’s birthstone, and was probably the same age as my father. His clothes were clean and he wore a silver ring on his right pinky.


He slid a country-and-western cassette into the player and drove through Archbald, Eynon, then Dickson City. He told me he was a pilot and had a private plane at the Wilkes Barre/Avoca airport. Near the Dunmore cemetery, he turned onto a side street and then into a tree-lined driveway. “I’d like to show you something.” He got out and walked toward the back of the car.

I hesitated for a brief moment then opened my door and bolted. He laughed–his voice raspy–and yelled “Hey! Wait!”


The Scranton bus stopped at the next intersection. My heart pounded against my eardrums as I climbed in and slipped some change into the fare box. I sat behind the driver and looked forward as if wearing blinders.

I hitchhiked until the following year when I became a legal driver.

But, I never picked up a hitchhiker.


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Writer's picture: kiehartkiehart

There comes a time in every teen's life when she wants a real job. Not a baby-sitting job. Not a house-cleaning job. But a job that pays money (and deducts taxes). A job that results in a steady stream of disposable income.

At almost sixteen years old, in Jermyn during the late summer of 1968, there wasn't a large selection of part-time jobs that attracted my interest. An advertisement for a carhop position at a local restaurant--- the San-Aw--got my attention. I applied for the job even though I had no idea what a carhop was. I was determined to be the best carhop the San-Aw ever had.

The owner, Al (Alexander Wanas), conducted my interview in the restaurant's dining area. Because I liked being outdoors and I liked people, I felt those traits already qualified me for the position. Al explained how every employee took a turn filling the napkins and condiments on the tables, checking supplies and cleaning the restrooms, and wiping the machines and tables. In time, I'd learn to serve coffee to dining room customers and run the milkshake machine and cash register because now and then it'd be busier inside than outside.


In warm weather, we wore white shorts or a short white skirt, and a navy blue-and-white striped vest. A white shirt under the vest and long pants were for cooler weather. The most important rule for the carhops was "Don't let a customer drive away with the tray." The cost of a missing tray would be deducted from your paycheck..


The restaurant patio provided a view of the curb service parking lot so we sat on the patio during any breaks or slow time (mostly to keep track of our trays). We'd only return to the car if the customer flashed the lights.

At some point during my first evening on the job, I went inside to use the bathroom. When I returned to the patio, Linda ran up to me shouting, "Number Eight just pulled away with your tray." Didn't we watch out for each other's trays? I began searching around the paved area in the dark, hoping the tray had been tossed into the surrounding shrubbery. No luck. I walked back to the patio and sobbed.

Linda and Mary Jane laughed and pointed to a chair where my tray sat. "It's a kind of game we play, an initiation sort-of. We take bets on whether the new girl will cry." Mary Jane put two dimes into Linda's outstretched hand.

"Fun-nee," I said. I immediately liked my carhop pals.

Al turned the Curb Service Open sign off if the rain was heavy. Customers would patiently sit in their cars and listen to music or make out until the rain lightened up. Some nights the summer's brief rain showers were the only times we could enjoy our allotted meal.

Every part of working at the San-Aw was fun. At the end of the night, we'd turn up the volume on the jukebox and prepare the restaurant for the next day. When Al completed mopping, we'd 'skate' on towels to dry the floor.

It was my first experience interacting with people outside of school, my Mayfield friends, and The Lane residents. ​It seemed we were never in a hurry to go home at the end of the night shift. We'd tell stories and jokes and listen to Al's plan for a future addition, another dining area with a bar and a wall of mirrors. Al shared his methods for memorizing customers' names and how to impress the patrons by memorizing their orders (the items were written on the tab once we were out of eyesight).


Al kept his harmonica tucked inside his shirt pocket and we'd hear him play "happy birthday" when a customer mentioned it was a birthday.

By the time the following summer rolled around, I had saved some money despite purchasing at least a hundred 45rpm records and a brown suede jacket with fringed sleeves. I would stay on the carhop schedule throughout the upcoming school year.

Money in my pocket as an eleventh grader with a driver's learning permit gave me a feeling of independence.

Section is from an early draft of Calico Lane.


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