The Fur Coat

For Allegra....because she stirred the visions and meandering thoughts several days ago....

                                                                         *******

We walked into I. Magnin's San Francisco past the perfume department to the rear where the elevators were.  A door opened, a gentlemen held the door saying "Going up" and we walked inside.  

"What floor ladies?" as he turned to those of us in the elevator.  Up the elevator went and at every floor as the elevator stopped he would say what was on that floor.  

We disembarked on the floor we wanted and I followed close on my mom's heels to where she led me.  We were greeted warmly by a nicely dressed woman.  My mother explained that she had been to a charity event and had bid on and won a fur jacket.  Yes, we were in the fur salon.  This was long before PETA began it's vocal anger towards those who bought furs and those who flaunted them when they wore them.  This was when a mink coat meant something, especially a full length one.

We waited in the large open area that was the fur salon.  There were white chairs and settee's to sit upon and an oval white coffee table with high end magazines on display.  Oversize windows looked out to Union Square.  There were short racks for items to be hung on but they were empty.

Another lady came out a side door greeting my mother.  The lady asked a few questions and made some small talk with us and then went back through the door.

The intent was that I was to be given the won fur jacket.  My mom did not know what it looked like but she thought it was youthful looking and would not be her style, hence the reason I was with her.  The last place I imagined myself was in a fur salon.  I always felt furs were for old women, wealthy older women like my mom, not someone barely in her 20's.  Still I found it intriguing enough to go along.


When the lady came out she held out towards us on a padded hanger a shaggy sheep jacket.  It was hideous.  My mom took one look at it and was quick to ask if it was possible to choose a different jacket.  The lady was restrained enough to not even give us a look that might have shown offense.  She was cool and polite.  She left us once again to speak to someone.  My mom and I talked amongst ourselves about the jacket that she left out on the rack for us to look at.  I would never wear this and felt like we should just give it to someone else.  No, my mom was not leaving till I had a respectable fur jacket.  


This time the lady came out and said that we could put this jacket towards another one.  Fine.  With that we were asked to sit down and she would bring out some items for us to view.  

I had no idea what I was in for.


The variety of fur coats came out and put on the rack.  I was asked to stand up and try them on.  I should say that I was asked to stand and they were put on me.  I have never had such a sensation as trying on fur.  At once it feels decadent but the lightness of them surprised me.  I had assumed they would be heavy.  The silky satin lining slipped on my arms and shoulders easily followed by the brushing of fur near my checks and on my neck.  Within seconds the warmth and unbelievable comfort of this upon my body made me reluctant to want to take it off.   I can't remember how many I tried on, maybe four but the one I choose in the end was a white fox dyed to look like a lynx jacket.  It was short, fun and I felt incredible in it.  I felt like a different person in it, not the girl I was before I came to this salon.


They said we could pick it up in less than a week after my initials were sewn inside.  Once I had this jacket I tried to wear it but where do I wear it?  I lived in a modest town with lower to middle class blue collar folks.  If any of the women in this town had a fur coat it was old and buried in the depths of their closet with moth balls.  When my Love and I went out I tried to wear it but even then I felt extremely out of place.  I wore it when we went to visit the parents until finally I just didn't wear it.  It was clearly not me.  

We have moved countless times and it is pushed to the back of the hall closet in it's protective cover.  What can I do with it?  I wouldn't get caught dead in it after I learned more about and understood the murder of poor little animals to make a fur coat.  No I couldn't wear it.  I thought of giving it to the Salvation army or to a homeless person in need of warmth but how would they be treated wearing fur?  Would a PETA representative harass them for possessing such a coat?  No, I couldn't do that to someone else.  And so it hangs in the dark with other wool coats I no longer wear that came from I. Magnin's before they went out of business.  


I am not a fur coat woman.  

San Francisco 1977

     Hauling our first Christmas tree up to our fourth floor apartment my Love and I were laughing and filled with smiles.  The needles from our tree left a trail up the stairs to our door since it had been another drought year for California leaving  Christmas trees dry and brittle.  No trouble!  It was Christmas!  Just a few needles left behind for our landlord Mario to vacuum up.  We had gone to the Delancy Street Foundation's tree lot down from where we lived and found our perfect tree.  A trip to Cost Plus led us to small wooden painted ornaments and the nearby drug store where we picked up lights.  We placed it in the corner between our windows in the living room to sit and admire as we cuddled on the the sofa.  Our first year together was like being on a honeymoon all the time.  We were far enough away from family to be really on our own but close enough when we were asked to dinner or a gathering. 


     My Love and I had lived in our  San Francisco apartment since June, the month before we wed, in 1977.  I had found this place while driving up and down the streets looking for 'For Rent' signs once we knew we would both be attending San Francisco State University for the Fall semester.  It was directly across from Golden Gate Park, with a view of the ocean and the biggest down side was living in the fog most of the time.  Still on quiet nights we could hear the fog horn blowing.  It reminded me of times out sailing on a calm socked in fog night when all you would hear was the lap of water on the sides of the boat while listening for the deep 'BUUUUAAAAAA!' sound of the fog horn letting you know how far land was.  


     Of course this perfect apartment would be on the top floor with no elevator.  We had a front row view from our bedroom windows as well as from the huge bay window in the living room of  Golden Gate Park.  We gazed at trees that stood strong and inpenetrable as though looking out on Sherwood Forest from the times of Robin Hood.  Yes, there were Merry Men amongst the growth below those trees.  I was warned by an officer on horseback while out jogging that it was not wise of me to do this as women had been raped or robbed in the hidden trails that wove in and out of the roads that ran through the park.  My Love and I tried jogging together, or attempted to try,  but he with his long legs ran circles around me.  Our dear Arleen and Clark had let us use their lovely Oriental carpets on the hardwood floors which as much as we enjoyed using them we would have rather that they had not moved away prompting a need for a place for them to be stored.  We had a charming breakfast room with a  built in hutch with glass doors and the tiniest kitchen with oddly plenty of cabinets.  I had a large old-fashion gas range that kept it cozy warm in there and was wonderful for cooking on.  Unfortunately I was not the best cook for my Love.  We did the laundry along with what felt like everyone else up the street at the nearest laundromat while we read the Sunday paper hopefully finding a place to sit while we waited. 


     Up the street from us was the home of Jefferson Airplane.  We never happened to see them even though they still owned the house.   It stood out due to the faded black paint color and oddly covered windows while we lived in the neighborhood giving it a forlorn and rundown look.   We were close to the Haight which was a pretty seedy neighborhood in the 70's so we rarely ventured there.  Our neighborhood was called the "Richmond District" with many small and unique ethnic restaurants and shops.  It was so cheap to eat out for two that we spoiled ourselves often by trying them whenever we could.  From Russian food at the "Miniature Bakery" we tried Borshcht and Pelmeni where the Babooshka who waited on us scolded me for not eating all my food.   

Jefferson Airplane home

We went to Chinatown often to browse the shops and bakeries but for us our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant  was Henry's Hunan Restaurant.  Small, with just a few closely placed tables, we chose to sit at the bar which filled the length of the place, while Henry himself helped cook and made suggestions of what to try.  Hot, fiery peppers made the dishes tasty as well as cleared your sinuses that only subsided the heat for me with a 7-Up and a beer for my Love.  If we sat at the end of the counter we could watch the help making the dumplings or chopping chicken with a cleaver knife.   My Papa came to love this food and it's proprietor whom opened a larger restaurant several years later.  Our personal all time favorite was the Smoked Ham dish that is unlike any Hunan or Chinese dish I have ever had.  To this day we always order it.  No argument over it except there is never enough.  Oh yes,  their Steamed Dumplings are simply the best we have ever tasted!

Henry's Hunan Restaurant

Henry Chung and his fantastic cookbook

    Occasionally on a Sunday morning my Love's sister and her family as well as his parents would come over to go for Dim Sum in the heart of Chinatown.  We often went to Asia Garden and sometimes to Yank Sing for some incredible dishes.  Chinese ladies would stroll up and down the aisles with metal carts covered with small plates or steam baskets singing out to the customer what dishes they had.  We never understood anything they said but we would stop them and they would lift the lid for us to see and pick.  A lot of great fun and adventure having Dim Sum as there was so much noise, talking, smells and sights to see.  Many tables were crowded with Asian families of all generations as well as folks like us clicking away with our chopsticks.  Afterwords we would walk the streets of Chinatown looking at the windows of Peking ducks hanging upside down or Tea Eggs in large glass containers, to Herbal shops, cookware, bakeries, and large stores filled with Chinese ware.

Dim Sum

Peking Duck

Chinatown

   Another haunt we had enjoyed for years was Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store where we could get a great authentic Cappuccino served in a real cup no less with a small biscotti to dunk in it.  In the back was a foosball table that you could play on for free.  It was always crowded with all sorts of people from old Italians from the neighborhood to young folks like my Love and I, all there to warm up in on a  cold  San Francisco evening.  San Francisco was an easy place to explore and parking was cheap once upon a time.   We could park in the Police lot  that  straddled the old Italian area and Chinatown for a buck an hour. Perpendicular to these neighborhoods was the raunchy area of strip clubs, hawkers yelling for you to come in for the shows, flashing neon lights and streets often crowded with Sailors on leave for the night.  Amongst them were the folks who lived in the apartments above this jungle.  Such contrasts in such a small area.

Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store

     My Love's brother found this crazy place called Cafe Sport that was also in North Beach.  The inside of the place was as much a feast for the eyes as the food was for our stomachs.    Every dish was filled with garlic and their specialties were seafood dishes.   We always went with a large group so we could order as many dishes as possible.  We would get so excited thinking about what the dish would taste like as we scanned the menu.  Wine would flow as we waited for the waiter to come.  There dinner times were seatings so everyone had to sit down before the food frenzy would begin.  The standing joke however was that once we would start telling the waiter what we wanted he would often say they were out of it.  We would pick another dish and it could be available or it too could not.  What ended up happening was the waiter would tell us what we were getting!  It didn't really matter because the food was so good the mood jubilant that we just waited till each dish arrived to devour.  We would walk out of the place reeking of garlic for the next several days.  

Cafe Sport

    Those days are so vivid in my mind and I guess I wrote a lot more than I thought I would...and realized this is a subject that still has more to go on...so Part #1 ...to be continued!