Its been a cold summer here in San Francisco, record cool temps. I’ve spent now seven summers in San Francisco and I no longer even remember what a warm summer feels like. I grew up in Los Angeles, so I know I know warmth when I feel it.

Reading last week some historical documents, I learned that a lot native people brought to San Francisco Mission had a hard time with the cold, foggy weather, contracting strong deadly lung infections. For those, a visit north or south was often the cure.

My grandma Mary, she lived in San Francisco a spell in the 1930’s, graduating from Mission High. When I moved back here to San Francisco, when she could still remember her own life completely, and me, Grandma used to laugh when I mentioned the fog, retelling how it was so bad, her family picked up and left cold, damp foggy SF to settle in San Jose, where she met my grandfather.

I seem to have an odd relationship with this city by the ocean. I feel anchored, although my soul has been walking so many other places even while I existed here. Existed. Perhaps that is the best way to describe my approach since arriving here. Existing. Living a lot of little missions to try to create one big statement.

I can’t think of leaving, but can’t seem to settle in. Like I’ve belonged always, yet can’t find a spot.

This summer is one of the coldest on record. I remember fondly warm times gone by, wishing for myself a little sunshine.

P.S. – In gratitude for the blue skies and warm ‘shine today!

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