Serendipity. Or Thanks, Dad.

Dad called me on a Wednesday evening.  Wednesday, August 22, 2012 to be exact.  He told me that he’d decided to stop his dialysis treatments.  We all knew this meant not only limited time, but marked time, so my brother and I jumped on a plane to Oregon that Friday.  We stayed the weekend and had a wonderful time.  He was in the best spirits and absolutely unafraid.  He was happier than I’d seen him in years and we talked about “after.”  Having not grown up with many beliefs, this was a new topic for us.  We also talked about genealogy, which was not a new topic for us.  My dad and I were the genealogists of the family, often emailing for hours over our findings.  I asked him to look up Miles Price when he “got there” and find a way to send me his parents’ names so that I would know it was from him and know he was okay.  He laughed and said he’d do what he could.  I knew that if I found something on Miles, it would have to be from another realm, as that information is just not here on this planet!

I left Dad on Sunday, with plans to be back for the remainder of his time that next Friday.  On Monday afternoon, the mail brought me Miles’ death certificate.  I’d ordered it over a year before along with two others.  I got the other two instantly, but Miles’ didn’t arrive.  Until that Monday.  And it had Miles’ parents’ names listed (Jacob and Rebecca).  Genealogical serendipity.

At first I was a bit upset.  NOW how was I going to know Dad was okay?  Then it clicked to me.  Maybe, if I believed this stuff, this was Miles’ way of saying, “Of course he’s going to be okay, you idiot third great granddaughter!  We’ve got him covered.”  Regardless, I still didn’t have anything specific to ask Dad for now.

I called Dad on Monday night to tell him and we laughed together.  He said, “Shorty, if I can find anything when I get there, I’ll pass it along.”  I talked to my step-mom on Tuesday night to see how she was doing.  I talked to Dad Wednesday night just to say goodnight and I reminded him that I’d be there Friday and I was staying.  “You’ll be stuck with me for awhile, Dad.”  “Well, Shorty,” he said, “I don’t imagine there is anyone better to be stuck with.”  Those were the last words I heard (out-loud) from him. 

Now comes more serendipity.  Thursday morning as I was checking my email for my updated flight information, I got an email from a woman named Penny.  She was doing some research for her best friend and had microfilm from Salt Lake City.  She Googled her friend’s family and my information on a blog posting from over 2 years ago came up.  She wanted to correct some of the information I had.  Oh, and by the way, did I want copies of the baptismal records from Germany and Wisconsin for this part of the family?  And since she had them, would I like it for the paternal line that didn’t coincide with her friend’s?  She’d be happy to make copies for me.  And also, it’s all in old German script.  Would I like it translated, since her college major was German with a concentration in old German script?  I received three full manilla envelopes of trees and original records. 

Later that day, as I waited for my transfer flight in Seattle, I received another email.  This time from a gentleman noting that he’d found a note I’d made in 1999 on a forum asking about Mr. Fisher, my husband’s birth father.  Did I still need information about him?  Did I have these photos of his parents?  These were the first photos my husband ever saw of his paternal grandparents.

I stayed in Oregon with my step-mom for two weeks and every single day I got new genealogical information from all parts of our family- maternal, paternal, birth, adopted, from EVERY PART IMAGINABLE.  As I got in Dad’s car (that is now mine) to drive the long drive home, I put my hand on the shifter to hold his hand, a habit I still continue, and said, “Dad, I love having this connection to you, but I really think I’m going to need a focus.  Can you send me something that you would wish I would focus on?”

When I got home and emptied the car, I found the plastic file folder holder that Molly and I had emptied and I decided to keep for one of my many failed organizing projects.  Stuck inside was a moldy torn photograph. 

I can almost promise that this was not there when I said I’d make good use of the file folder.  Who are these people?  Over the next month or so, I sent the photo around to family and no one recognized them.  A few weeks later, Google Alerts sent me a notice that my ongoing search for “Mariani” AND “hardware” had a match.  I clicked the link and this is what popped up:

http://www.almanacnews.com/news/2011/10/10/a-page-from-our-history

I decided that was my focus.  And a mere two years later, this is the result:

 Thank you, Dad.  I can’t believe it’s been two years since you passed away.

Amanuensis Monday: "A Man with a Memory" (Giacomo "James" Mariani, San Francisco, CA)

From “A Man with A Memory,” The Morning Call, San Francisco, CA, 6 February 1893, p. 3; digital images, California Digital Newspaper Collection (http://cdnc.ucr.edu : accessed May 2011). 

City Sketches in Black and White

 A Man with A Memory

In an Italian restaurant on O’Farrell street there is a waiter who has a memory greater than that possessed by Memnon or by a disappointed office-seeker.  Better still, his bank account is longer than his wonderful memory.

A wonder in many things is Mariani, for that is the name of the little man with the big memory.  Many were the stories related in reference to the food-bearer’s incomprehensible bran faculties before I decided to test them for myself.

“Why,” said a Bohemian friend while relating some of Mariani’s performances, “there is less likelihood of his forgetting a face or a dish than of Chris Buckley, ‘the blind devil,’ failing to remember a voice.  He will not only recognize one after a year’s absence, but will also remember what your last meal consisted of.  Don’t believe it, eh?  Well, you can put him to a test and decide for yourself.”

So it was agreed to put the little waiter’s memory to a most rigid test.  It was on Christmas eve, 1891, that two weary, hungry reporters entered the restraint where Mariani is employed.  Hundreds of persons were dining there and scarcely two ordered the same dishes.

“Hello, Shortpencil,” was Mariani’s greeting as he quickly appeared by my friend’s side, “regular dinner to-night or the same as you had last time?”

In order that there might be a fair test Shortpencil insisted that I should do the ordering.  I do so, and the meal was a most satisfactory one.  The circumstance had almost entirely escaped my memory and I had forgotten there was such a person in the world as a disciple of the great Memnon in the person of the modest little waiter, and was wondering where to dine when Shortpencil accosted me.  This was Christmas eve, 1892, just one year after our dinner was served by Mariani.

 “Been to dinner?  No, well let’s go to see Mariani.  I’ll wager you a small bottle of extra dry that he can repeat the dinner, dish for dish, without a single order.”

The wager was accepted and half an hour later we were seated in the O’Farrell street restaurant.  Mariani was soon before us with a large bottle of claret in his hands.

“Good evening,” said he to Shortpencel, and turning to me, he added, “and how are you?  It must be nearly a year since you were last here?”

Already his memory was beginning to assert itself.  “now then gentlemen,” he continued, “will you have a regular dinner or the same as last time?”

“Same,” said Shortpencil.  Then my own memory of the meal twelve months before was revived as each delicacy appeared in the same order as before.  First came the large bottle of Burgundy with two small glasses and plenty of cracked ice.  Shrimp salad, ox tail soup, Italiarena, broiled flounder, roast teal duck and run omlette came in their regular order without a word being spoken to Mariani.

“You had Oregon cheese last time,” explained the knight of the napkin, when it was time for dessert, “but we have a new brand which you will find even nicer.”

“Give us the same as before,” was the order.

By this time I began to marvel at the man’s memory and to realize that I was about to lose the wager.

But there were several things yet to come before the first dinner had been entirely duplicated.  Mariani was equal to the occasion, however, and without the least hesitation completed the meal by supplying black coffee, cognac and the same brand of cigars we had smoked before.

Shortpencil chuckled gleefully several hours later as he helped consume the champagne Mariani’s memory had won for him.  “Don’t feel bad,” he said soothingly, as he held the sparkling liquid to the light, “I lost a similar bet two years ago.  Had to get even some way, you know.”

Several days later I learned more about Mariani.  For thirty years he has worked in the same restaurant and has judiciously invetsed his savings.  In addition to several houses and lots he owns a big factory in South San Francisco that supplies many of the delicacies he daily serves to patrons of the restaurant.

“Yes, he is a wonder,” said the proprietor of the restaurant, when asked about Mariani, “and although he has accumulated a fortune you could not hire him to quit his occupation as a waiter.  As he declares himself, he was born to be a waiter, and a waiter he will be till called to that land where edibles are not required.”     ~B. Cromwell

Family Recipe Friday- French Dressing

Vera Mariani’s French Dressing

3 cloves garlic, crushed           1 ½ cup olive oil*

2 tablespoons sugar                 1/3 cup wine vinegar*

1 ½ teaspoons salt                   1/3 cup water

¼ teaspoon pepper                  1 lemon, squeezed

¾ cup catsup                          

Mix all.

*Only use Star brand olive oil in the large tin.  Vinegar was Mariani wine vinegar- over 100 years old!  Near equivalent is Granzella’s Premium Red Wine Vinegar from Williams, California.  Almost as good!

Mariani Fountain- Revisited... Literally

My mom and I took a trip to San Francisco today and visited the Mariani Fountain.

Mom got a photo of me with it this time:

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Case of the Missing Maskey's Candy

S. Mariani & Sons at 23rd and Columbia (now Florida).  See the children playing out front?  One could be Vera!            Photo used with permission of Carl Pisaturo-  http://carlpisaturo.com/Carlovision_MAIN.html

When Vera Mariani was a young girl, she lived on the corner of 23^rd and Columbia (now Florida) in San Francisco.  Below her house at street level was her father’s hardware store, S. Mariani & Sons.  The “S” stood for Stefano.  The sons were Helvetio, Walter, Arnold, Stephen and Eugene, although Arnold did not make it to adulthood.  Vera used to play around the house and hardware store, exploring and making up games.  The siblings closest to her age were her brothers Steve and Gene.  Once when my brother was terrorizing playing with me, I remember Vera telling me that her brothers played too rough for her, too, and that she often played alone.  

 It was during one of these alone playing day that Vera opened the deep cupboard in the kitchen that housed the ironing board.  I remember this cupboard.  If you opened the door, you could fold down the ironing board and reveal shelves.  As she opened this one day, she saw something on the top shelf.  What was it?  She retrieved the step stool and climbed up.  Grasping the edge, she pulled it and then saw the well-recognized logo of Maskey’s Candies—a mask and a key. 

San Francisco was and still is known worldwide for its candy.  From the 2000 National Register of Historic Places Registration Form requesting that the Haas Candy Factory at 54 Mint Street in San Francisco:

San Francisco possessed many favorable characteristics for the success of the candy industry: the cool summer climate is favorable for dipping chocolates. The deep water port facilitated importation of cocoa beans and sugar cane. Sugar was refined locally as early as 1857. The large population provided a good market for the product, which included not only chocolates, but candy sticks, licorice, sugar plums, lollipops, Turkish delight, ribbon candy, and taffy.

From (http://pdfhost.focus.nps.gov/docs/NRHP/Text/00001622.pdf):

In the 1887 Langley’s San Francisco City Directory, Maskey’s was first listed as a “manufacturer of fine candies.”  (From http://archive.org/details/crockerlangleysa1897sanf).  They are no longer in business, but the location of the factory and store still stands at 48-52 Kearny Street. 

When seeing that mask and key logo, young Vera must have had a jolt of excitement, a Pavlovian response.  Candy!  Right there!  She opened the carton and found that it was, in fact, a box full of chocolates.  Of course no one would miss one tiny small piece.  She plopped it in her mouth, savoring the delicious chocolate while she put the step stool and ironing board away.  A week or so later, she wondered if the box was still there.  She repeated her adventure and found it was the same box with the one missing chocolate.  Surely it had been forgotten.  But if she were to point it out, she’d have to share with her siblings.  Best to keep this to herself, she likely thought, as she popped another chocolate.  This continued a few times, each visit emptying the box by one chocolate.

On another note, outings with Father were very treasured.  He was a busy hardware man and had sons to teach the business to and customers to care for.  So one day, when Stefano asked Vera to come along with him for a visit with his very best customer, she was excited.  They rode the buggy over and upon reaching the door, Stefano pulled out a box of Maskey’s chocolates for presentation to the customer.  “How lovely of you to bring such fine chocolates,” said the customer.  Stefano bowed slightly in deference and with a touch of pride.  Meanwhile, little Vera stood next to him, shivering in horror and fear.  It was THE box.  The half emptied box of Maskey’s chocolates!  She feared a whipping when she confessed to Father, but instead just got lectured all the way home.

The part of this story that Louise told me that makes me the saddest is that I will never get to taste a Maskey’s chocolate.  If I did, I know I’d taste it with the taste buds and excitement of the eyes of young Vera.  I might even sneak them from my own cabinet, just to experience that moment of hers.  I tried to find a picture of the Maskey’s logo online, but couldn’t locate it.  If anyone has it to share, I’d love to see!

Note: The Mariani family is not my blood family, but there are not many left of the Marianis.  I have deep roots with the Marianis with my great grandfather and father both being caretakers on their ranch in Portola Valley, as well as a house in Portola Valley much later as I attended junior high and high school.  Because of my love for my “Auntie Vera,” the genealogist in me didn’t want to leave them untraced.  So I have been researching them blindly (i.e. only records, no ancestral stories) for about 3 years.  Last week I had the opportunity to meet with Louise, the 99-year-old granddaughter of the immigrant Mariani, cousin to my Vera, who I remember well from my childhood.  She supplied me with wonderful stories (including this one) and genealogy that I will be sharing both here and in the book I’m writing. 

Where Do You Get Your Genealogical Education?

Our local genealogical society, Livermore-AmadorGenealogical Society has a Lunch ‘n’ Learn every other month (that we are switching to monthly, as we all really like it).  Last month our meeting was about how we get our genealogical education.  I brought a list of my educational sources and then the others all added to it.  We came away with a very comprehensive list that we are very proud of! 

 

The other fun part was that my 7-year-old son came along.  I wanted to show him that even us old people keep learning.  He had a wonderful time—played with George’s hearing aid and told everyone about his 4-H Family History class where he gets his genealogy education (“With the very best teacher EVER- My Momma!”).

I put a link to our class notes here:

https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B95hFtyCNGc4RldORmJCSnppeUU/edit?usp=sharing