Our Jewel
Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend.
Each year without fail (unless COVID).
This is our Big Chill group, that simple.
Do you remember the movie? A group of college friends experience many firsts alongside each other. They’re the companions for each other’s brief yet significant launch into adulthood. In our group, we were there for each other’s first time falling in love, first real job, first time attending graduate school (some of us kept repeating graduate school over and over and over again!). All these years later, we continue to be there for each other.
I guess not so brief. But quite significant.
We meet yearly each January for Julia’s birthday. We begin with champagne and dessert because, well, why not? We gather here, under the dome of the Palace of Fine Arts in the Marina district of San Francisco—the city where we all originally met over 40 years ago.
The Palace of the Fine Arts building is magnificent. Originally it opened in 1915 for the Panama Pacific International Exposition, while the building was still under reconstruction from the 1906 earthquake and the more devastating fire. San Francisco was trying, and succeeding, to represent itself as an international city. Today, its earthquake-reinforced structure stands sturdy against the winds at the mouth of the Golden Gate bridge.
POFA belongs to its originator: Julia Hamilton. Jules created the world she wanted to live in. That world included all of us. We’re “you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit” kind of friends. We’re not perfect. In fact, we’re not even neat at times! We’ve all gone through some trauma or traumatic events and BIG feelings. Messy is inevitable. Perhaps it is this imperfection that draws us to each other. Perhaps we are a form of chaotic for Julia that feels familiar but doesn’t control her life or make her sad. She created a friend group out of the one solid thing we shared with each other and with her: LOVE.
We call her Jules. Is she OUR ‘Jewel’? I believe so. She is the godmother of most of our children and cares for them deeply. She’s the playground oracle we’d consult to clear the potential names of our unborn. She somehow knew which names would be spared teasing and which would be fodder for the playground bully. “Don’t name your kid Tucker, because that kid’s going to become Little F***er!” It was as if she had this rolodex of safe names put to memory. She loved each child’s spirit from the moment that they arrived. She offered love to our kids with the same bounteous energy she offered it to us.
Jules once invited me for a therapy session. “Sure. Any particular reason?” I asked. “My therapist wants some insight into my personal community,” she stated. I was in town for POFA, so I was happy to represent. Her therapist and I agreed on one thing for sure: as far as friends are concerned, Jules is truly one of the luckiest and loveliest of friends.
Although everyone around her experiences her as the jewel she is, Jules will be the first to admit that she has a habit of self-depreciating. She has been known to frequently self-critique her health, her balance, and her tendency to live without a lot of home organization. (Shhhh, that one may still be a secret!) Our Jules is a chronic apologizer. She may deny this at first and then agree with you, then apologize for not seeing it your way initially, then apologize for apologizing! It’s a vicious cycle and a bit exhausting for all involved, especially her.
BUT, for all these supposed flaws, Jules continues to maintain an abundance of friends. I like to gently tease her about this mystery. Even Jules, the Patron Saint of Self-Effacement, cannot deny that she’s created something significant that can’t be duplicated. She has told me many times that she feels very fortunate.
When she worked as a district manager for Peets Coffee and Tea, she arrived to each coffee shop singing. Like a Pied Piper, she would mezmerize the staff with her presence. She personalized each worker. In a happy trill, she’d sing out, “There’s TRISHA, our wonderful TRISHA! And Kevin, our barista from heaven!” Her magnetism invited all to be drawn toward her. Each year, our POFA group grew, introducing new friends from her Sacramento community.
Our friends, Mary and Marien, like to discuss (argue) which of us have attended ALL of the POFA parties and which POFA party was the actual FIRST one. They’ll disagree with me that they each like to “discuss/argue” this issue, but suffice to say, it’s a topic that arises yearly. Personally, I like being an audience to this discussion. It’s fun to watch. Reaction response times may be slowing a bit, but verbal and non-verbal behaviors tend to be astonishingly consistent over time. It’s a long-term study in the making, and my (fictitious) panel of researchers and I sit on the sidelines tracking specific behaviors with hatch marks every 5-10 minutes. “Fascinating!” My colleagues and I remark to one another.
January in California is akin to Fall in Utah, brisk but tolerable. The moist ocean air wafting over us is the only difference. California winter seeps into our bones and freezes us from the inside out while Utah Winter is dry and only skin-deep. Throughout our 4-hour gathering, we test our cold tolerance against our resolve to soak up every millisecond we have together. Every year, our resolve wins and we don’t leave until we’ve turned into veritable meat popsicles.
Some of us only see each other for POFA.
We watch time do its work on our posse. Our strong, enthusiastic knees give way to walking devices, our bellies expand then contract then expand again, and grey hairs (or no hairs) change the sculpture of our faces and figures. We comment on this, but care not-so-much. We’re at the age of the perpetual “Organ Recital,” as Michael likes to say as he holds onto the side of his torso and then moves it to the other side, a little lower this time. “This organ and now this organ,” he says, referring to the aches and pains as each makes itself known.
We have witnessed our offspring grow and become themselves. We’ve also seen partnerships change and evolve over time. Some spouses transition due to illnesses while others decouple, yet do so amicably enough to continue to join in the POFA party in warmth and harmony. This I find to be a testament for our love for our friend Jules.
Our POFA friends have witnessed us during times of self-discovery that may have been overlooked by other colleagues during our “Adulting Developmental Years.” We have also buoyed each other through challenging life events outside of our own growth years. Throughout the entire decade of the 1980s, AIDS dominated the world community, but more immediately our San Francisco community.
With support from my friends, we volunteered at Coming Home Hospice, one of the first AIDS Hospices. Originally this was the convent for teachers at Most Holy Redeemers Elementary School next door. The sisters were in the order of The Blessed Sisters of Charity. It was converted into an AIDS Hospice around 1986. It was founded by Visiting Nurses and Hospice of San Francisco, and supported by the California Pacific Medical Center Foundation. Located in the Castro district, this pink building was rented out by the Catholic church for $1 per year.
It was here that I experienced my first pandemic (one that Dr. Fauci also worked toward understanding). I would bring my dog with me as an Animal Assisted Therapist while we volunteered each Sunday with the nurses and patients.
Struggle may not be fun, but it's necessary for growth and the development of deeply important skills like problem-solving, persistence, and self-regulation.
In 1988, I decided to leave my beautiful city to travel across the country in my little VW bug. After a year’s end, I found myself in Racine, Wisconsin attempting to salvage a struggling relationship between a former boyfriend and myself. We were flailing. Witnessing the next event seemed all too appropriate for what we were attempting to save: We turned the TV to watch Game 3 of the World Series only to discover that my beloved city had experienced a 6.9 earthquake!
“Oh my god, that's San Francisco!”
“I know that building!”
“The Bridge!...”
I couldn’t complete any of my sentences. It was a lot to digest.
Seeing this earthquake unfold snapped me out of my lovesick la-la land. My heart did not belong in Racine, Wisconsin. It was October 17, 1989 and I was 2,200 miles away from my friends. This earthquake, which caused considerable damage to the homes and infrastructure, stopped the city in its tracks.
“Where are we, where’s my family?” was the panic-stricken cry of the citizens of San Francisco. It took some families several days before they could reunite.
Broadcasting from Candlestick Park ball stadium, Al Michael’s captures the moment the Earthquake hit. The earth rocked between 10-15 seconds just past 5:00 p.m. during rush hour. The Oakland Athletics and the San Francisco Giants were just about to throw their first pitch of Game 3.
Jules had just left work and was driving past the stadium when the quake struck. She reported to me that the earthquake felt like she had gotten a flat tire while driving on the El Camino Real in Burlingame. Thankfully she was safe and (at first) unaware of the devastation to our beloved city. Candlestick Park is a stadium no longer standing, however at the time, this stadium sat on the bay and held spectacular views of both the city and the bridges.
None of what occurred was expected. Humans never expect a natural disaster, it seems. The matchup was postponed, the bridges were closed (or collapsing), people were trapped or stranded and life suddenly stood still. The stadium where the game was being played required immediate evaluation. The epicenter was located about 60 miles from Candlestick Park, with the heaviest shaking taking place in the Santa Cruz Mountains and lasting around 15 seconds. The earthquake claimed 63 lives and resulted in more than 3,700 injuries, with heavy damage throughout the Bay Area. It was the beginning of a difficult and frightening time. In just a short time, all that we knew had suddenly been altered.
I have a friend who lived in Santa Cruz when the earthquake hit. This was considered the epicenter. During the shaking, she desperately tried to get out of her house via the front door but it was stuck and refused to open. She ran outside through the back door instead but by that time, the earthquake had stopped. Upon calming her nervous system, she walked around the outside of her home somewhat inspecting the house and somewhat regaining her composure. As she approached the front side of the house, the ground directly in front of her front door was something she did not imagine nor had any prior experience to rely upon or reference to. What she saw was a huge gaping fracture in the earth. If she had made it out of that front door, the earth would have literally swallowed her up alive.
One month later, I arrived in San Francisco in my little VW Bug to spend Thanksgiving with Jules. She still appeared a little cautious and a bit frazzled, but essentially herself. As both of us are vegetarians, I thought we could be creative with tofu and eat on the beach somewhere. It worked for us. What I didn’t fully understand until I arrived was the devastation that the quake had caused. I suddenly felt the fear everyone else felt one month prior. (Seeing everything on TV just didn’t have the same impact as witnessing it in person.)
Jules toured me around the Marina district and showed me POFA. The Palace itself was now closed and due for additional repairs. Not unlike the city's infamous 1906 earthquake, our sweet progressive city of 49 square miles was once again in need of care.
If I could’ve, I would’ve sucked the fear and frenzy out of my beloved city with a turkey baster. But I couldn’t save Jules or any of my other friends from the earthquake. I could only show up as friends do, with tofu and a readiness to reconnect.
Developmentally appropriate struggle can help young people build the mindset and skills they need for a happy and successful life.
We can’t stop earthquakes, we can’t stop AIDS. We can only choose to show up to our lives with as much enthusiasm as we can muster, and then learn the lessons and move forward.
POFA conversations magically continue where they left off the year prior. I find this specifically amazing as we are all the same people who struggle with age-related depleting memory issues, yet these conversations appear to travel to the memory storage unit labeled “POFA party, please continue next year” and without fail, we recall, upload, and continue.
“Tell me about your adventures”—a request directed to our friend Mark. Mark is the world traveler of the group. He once held a goal of 60 countries by age 60. He FAR surpassed this goal and is most likely on a goal to the tune of 100 countries by 100. (I suspect he’ll run out of countries before he runs out of years). He works one job for vacations and combines retirement money and part-time work for living expenses. His travels take him away from us for weeks on end and oftentimes we all find ourselves vicariously traveling through him.
“How are your children?” a question I hear directed toward Patrice. Patrice is in that progressive recoupled relationship I mentioned earlier. Patrice is an honorary POFA attendee. She stems from Jules’s current city of Sacramento and makes the trip each year (two decades worth!) with her new husband and children. Her ex husband, Patrick, is equally a peach and he joins us as well. Between the two families, I believe there are 7 grown children. It’s a gaggle of young adults, a second POFA generation. They all feel just as connected as we do.
How do we watch people make difficult decisions?
While going through graduate school I landed a nanny job to help me take care of housing and food costs. The kids were great, the parents were extremely dysfunctional. I once found myself so incredibly infuriated with their incessant stupid requests that I just couldn’t take it any longer, so I left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. I’m not proud of this moment. The children didn’t understand why I left and the parents didn’t like the inconvenience.
At 1:00 in the morning, I found myself walking through the Presidio when I made the decision to fire myself from this hellish job. I packed up my bike and my luggage, then loaded my VW bug with all my belongings and left my convenient cost-effective live-in nanny apartment. I headed to an “Open 24 hours” coffee shop, high on the type of adrenaline that comes with finally standing up for yourself. I contacted Mary to simply say, “I don’t have a home anymore. I cannot work for that family anymore. Of course I love the children, but I’m not sure if the parents do. I need to get away.” Somehow, I found my way to a home and continued with school which somehow continuously showed itself as a safe haven. Mary got me a job at the Stonestown YMCA. I felt at home again with people who looked out after me.
Growing up publicly and with people who witness all your faults and carelessness but who still love you in the end is a rare gift. These are friends, my mother likes to say, who “stab you in the front.” They’re gonna tell you the truth no matter how hard it is to hear. I love it.
Thirty years ago, Jules and I celebrated my 30th birthday. We met halfway, in Cambria. Jules came down from San Francisco and I ventured up from Los Angeles. I had started my career as a school teacher and she was a manager for Peet's Coffee and Tea. It felt like a tipping point, a decade for new beginnings all around.
My 30th birthday felt monumental to me. I called it “The birthday of No More 20’s!” While some people mourn the loss of their 20s, I gleefully washed my hands of mine. I suppose I felt like I had blundered through my twenties, and I wanted to be DONE with the bumbling! But if that’s what it took to learn a lesson or two, SO BE IT!
My birthday is the day after Cinco de Mayo, so we celebrated until midnight with Mexican food and margaritas. Then at the stroke of midnight we screamed “Goodbye 20!” and promptly uncorked a bottle of champagne. Hasta la vista, baby!
For my 60th birthday we met on the central coast again, this time at my mom’s house. I was assisting mom through a hip replacement recovery and taking a break from a heat wave blasting through Utah. The cool ocean breeze offered respite from the heat and fire. Jules and I decided to visit Piedras Blancas Lighthouse, about 5 miles from San Simeon, California. Mom’s neighbor is a docent to the coastal monument and offered us a tour.
Upon arrival we saw water spouts in the far off distance, “Whales!” I called out. A pod of Humpbacks, I believe. The welcomed sight caused us to pause and take in the slow beautiful dance of their submerging and re-emerging. I like to believe that our souls lept in a cosmic dance that the whales could also perceive.
A Lighthouse Keeper is often referred to as a Light Keeper. Jules is our Light Keeper.
(Stay tuned for a continuation of our Light Keeper in next week’s series: Part II)
