It is 51˚ and expected to rise to 60˚. Details for the next ten days are here.
Today’s Block: 22nd to 21st and Bryant to Florida
I live on the corner of 22nd street and Florida, an intersection which serves as a crossroads as well. An intersection is a place where drivers, pedestrians and cyclists make decisions about direction. In this way, the river of movement outside my window serves as a reminder- a harbinger- of a decision I’ll (someday) have to make. As a 24-year Mission resident, I know that-unless something changes dramatically, I’ll have to leave the Mission, never to return. This is my last Mission apartment .
Creelys have come and gone from the Mission before. In 1894, John Center sold a lot “on W line of Florida street…near Twenty-first” to Margaret Creely, my great-great Grandmother, for $10. 916 Florida street, the number of the house that was built on that lot, is gone – was it a victim of the earthquake? Or general dilapidation? I don’t know. Margaret died in 1898, and went away, never to return. The street numbers are now out of sequence. 918 jumps to 914 and where 916 was is anyone’s guess. There is only a missing integer to mark the absence of the house that once stood there.
Last year, property owners on my block were compelled by the Department of Public Works to fix the aged, buckling sidewalks fronting their property. They poured fresh concrete. As I walk the block I see the names of my neighbors etched in cement squares in front of their houses and apartments. They seized the opportunity to leave their mark; to immortalize their residency. Of course, I did the same: I scratched my name hastily into the wet cement at the foot of my steps. The concrete swelled as it hardened, blurring the letters. But if you know what you’re looking at, it’s clear what the scratches spell: Creely. The bells of St. Peter’s chimed the hour this morning, as I walked out my front door to take these pictures. The sound of the bells chiming is perhaps are one of the more durable artifacts of this neighborhood: the church was built in 1867. The “labor priest” Father Peter Yorke was pastor there, and my great-great grandparents were parishioners. They were just one of many Irish American families living in the Mission Districts then. I imagine they woke up on Sunday and walked down Florida Street, following the sound of the chiming bells. Today, I heard them too.
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