On rainy days like this, I always think of Sausalito – of times with my father when the area around his apartment complex flooded and the sounds of the rain hitting the mud below got louder and louder the more the water piled up. We couldn’t go anywhere and that was just fine – I enjoyed those moments I spent with him. There were these huge glass windows that looked out over the bay where the houseboats would sway back and forth. We’d cook something and eat on these plates – I remembered them so well – they were plastic and kind of deep with raised edges. He always had bagels in the freezer that we’d make with butter – put them in the broiler part of the over with little slabs of butter on them.
I think now, even when I taste that, I remember those times with my father. I remember them as a child and feel less of an adult with all the weight that comes with it. There is something about the weather moving around as it does – on this morning, I can hear the weight of the rain coming down and think that perhaps it’s some kind of wormhole to another time. Those days in Sausalito were our times, a very special place in history. It was still untouched and unfiltered. How amazing.
We’d play chess – my father taught me to play, and the board looked so big. I can still remember the pieces and the weight of the board itself – how big they were in my hand and how each move was such a huge decision because everything else dropped away except for the game. But the surroundings – the time we spent, the moments that were shared and all that was exchanged, were all captured I think by the falling rain that caused the flood that allowed times for games to be so important.
I can still remember looking up and seeing the houseboats moving. I remember the cranes flying above that were housed in the Eucalyptus trees that grew high above the fence just the right right of his apartment complex. Everything felt so natural, and today, with the morning rain in Brooklyn, I have those memories flooding back.
Each time it’s gray like it is today, my thoughts drift to San Francisco, both in my time there as a college student and my time with my father when we’d race through the city and the areas surrounding it trying to squeeze in as much time as possible. Those memories are amazing and filled me quite strongly this morning. Memory is like that with the sounds and smells of you past, and there is a very distinct connection between Brooklyn and San Francisco – perhaps it’s the smell of trees or their ability to hold onto the rain much longer than the cement of Manhattan does.