Christmas was always a busy time of the year in my family. My mother was one of these people that bought gifts well in advance so that she was done with her shopping before the “holiday rush” even began and could sit back and entertain herself by watching the rest of us go through the crazy antics generated by last minute shopping. Not so with my dad. He was good at picking out gifts; however, his process, rather than being the smooth one that my mother’s was, inspired an anxiety producing last minute buying experience that involved multiple people (usually grandma and me, and sometimes my uncle) and revolved around obtaining just the “right gift” for my mom. I can remember grandma and me running all over town looking for a black “Persian lamb shrug.” What was Persian lamb, and what was a shrug? Neither grandma nor I really knew. It was just something my dad had heard my mom mention she might like, in passing, during one of their conversations over the course of the year. While my mom had a collection of department store credit cards, my dad opted for only one. It was the card he used to service the family car, and was his first stop for all purchases. It was where America shops.
The Sears Roebuck store stood like a seemingly window-less fortress that served as a refuge for shoppers from 1951 until its closing in 1990. Its low-rise architectural structure and multiple parking lots, which seemed quite modern for its day, encompassed an entire city square block and tended to diminish the presence of lesser buildings nearby on its hillside perch at the corner of Geary and Masonic Boulevards in San Francisco. It stood on the 38 Geary bus line where crowds of shoppers were always gathered at the windy bus stop outside the front entrance during business hours, shuffling shopping bags filled with Christmas gifts, while waiting to be picked up. Once the bulbous green and white Muni bus swerved, whined, and jerked its way into the designated space, the struggle was on. Those of us, experienced Muni riders, were familiar with the drill. Only the most adept, the most strategically astute, and the most fleet of foot of potential riders had any chance of boarding the already overcrowded bus during the holiday season in front of Sears. Inside, I’d spent many a holiday season pushing through the crowded aisles with my parents, past the perfume counter, and the candy and nut concession stands, with its enticing aroma of freshly roasting Cashews, and Brazil nuts, in route to the garden dept. It was here where we as a family, back in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s made our annual pilgrimage to the tree mecca known as the Sears Garden Dept. It was where our live Christmas tree was waiting for us.
My dad would always be the one leading our parade. He seemed to relish the idea of twinkly lights resting upon freshly-cut green tree branches, but he was also a big fan of the shiny aluminum trees that had recently become popular. My mom was simply there for the ride. The parameters were set by dad in advance. Our tradition was always a six foot tall Douglas fir. No other tree would do. My mom, never quite into the spirit of it, always tried to nix the whole thing by asking "Why do we need such a big tree? What about a smaller one Frenchy; couldn't we put it on a table-top? Then we wouldn't need quite so many lights?." I was with dad all the way on this one and was even hoping for a bigger one. The garden dept., freezing cold as it was in December, couldn't dampen dad’s or my enthusiasm. Finally, dad would find the perfect six footer, grasp it by its top and shout out to mom “Frances, what do you think?” Mom would respond with her usual “Let’s just pick one and get out of here, Frenchy, I’m starving.” So, to the cash register we headed and then to the parking lot where Dad would load the tree into the trunk of our big Buick and home we’d go.
It was the holiday season of 1960, and the first Christmas in our newly purchased home. Previous to that, we rented a flat on one of the steepest inclines in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill. The new house in the avenues, although sitting on a gently rolling slope, was almost level by comparison. One evening a couple of days before Christmas I found myself accompanying dad once again to Sears. As usual, dad was on a mission as he directed our steps, this time straight to the sporting goods dept. where we stopped at a lineup of shiny red and blue boys and girls bicycles. “Why don’t you go take a look and see if you find one that you like, dad gestured in the direction of the girls rack. While every year for as long as I could remember, dad always took me for a single shopping trip to Sears, just the two of us, usually to buy and outfit; this was truly unexpected. I had wanted a bike for so long, but living on the "Kearny Street Hill", one of the steepest in the city, made it impossible for me to ride on my street, and the cross street, Broadway, was a main thoroughfare, so congested with traffic that my parents forbade me from even walking across it, let alone riding a bike. There was no other safe place to bike nearby in my urban neighborhood so I simply wanted and waited. “Which one dad,” I asked in a surprised tone. “Any one you want honey,” was his reply. So, I began wandering back and forth between the narrow slices of space that separated the bikes. There was a dizzying array to choose from and for a moment, my mind was a blur and I couldn’t think. Finally, I came upon the most beautiful, turquoise colored three-speed I’d ever seen; with whitewall tires and a white pouch hanging on the back. It was stunningly gorgeous--like nothing any of my friends had or could even imagine. I paused and stared at it. “Do you like this one” dad asked. “Yeah,” was my reply; in a tone that belied my excitement about what was before me and after a momentary pause, I continued looking while my heart pounded through my chest at the very thought of owning this most beautiful piece of transportation. Dad must have seen through my facade because he asked “If this is the one you want, I’ll buy it for you.” Yes dad, this is the one" I replied in a controlled yet breathless voice. “Well good, said dad; “we’ll take it.”
After the sales clerk rang up the sale and dad produced his Sears card, we were once again headed to the parking lot to load up the Buick with the best Christmas present I ever received. On the way to our car dad said to me, his voice dropping a bit in tone as he patted me gently on the shoulder “Now you know this is your Christmas present from your dear ole dad.” I turned to him and said “I know dad,” it’s our annual shopping trip right?” “Right,” replied dad and we headed home.
