YOU CAN SEE IT FROM HERE

Mister Yeh is elderly, and lives opposite the school. It is quite possible that he is a widower, but it is just as likely that his good lady is less spry than he himself.
I only know his name because he sat down to rest on the same bench where I was smoking a pipe. He didn't seem to mind the smell.
For several minutes he sort of swung his legs (too short to hit the ground), and, I surmise, twiddled his toes inside his shoes. Then a passer-by recognized him, and they had a twenty minute conversation. By the time they had exchanged all the news and local gossip, I had finished my pipe. Mister Yeh got up to leave, bid me a good evening, and headed down the hill. As it turns out, his house is only half a block from the bench.
Which I know because I passed him going up his steps.


Why do I think he's a widower or has a wife less mobile?
Because he had shopping bags. And he had come from the direction of Trader Joe's, not the nearest stop where the bus across the hill from Chinatown lets off. Elderly Chinese men doing their own food shopping are, in all likelihood, not really attached to a fully mobile wife. Who might insist that the vegetables should adhere to certain standards, and perhaps a fresh fish be acquired.

There are a lot of elderly Chinese around the peripheries of Nob and Telegraph hills. They bought buildings in the sixties, when racial limitations on residence were already somewhat relaxed. Still close enough to the old neighborhood, but not dangerously deep in Italian or Irish territory. C'town was busting at the seams then, and there were lots of children.
A lot of the children have since grown up, and moved away.
They come and visit, bringing their own kids along.
Cars will park under the trees and disgorge.
Other than that, it's a quiet area.

For someone who must be in his eighties, whose English is probably not so good, mister Yeh knows an amazing amount about current politics. He and his much younger friend (my age) discussed several articles in the Sing Tao daily. Yes, I listened in, but I didn't let on that I understood most of it. Or, in fact, any of it. I was having too much fun digging the details.
Chitchat becomes very limited when a kwailo shows he understands.
Not because of any racism, but due to a change of focus.
No point in starting something I cannot finish.
Good enough to understand most of it.
Not to contribute anything.

It's easier to understand a language than to think in it, and on your feet. Nor do I need anymore praise for being conversant at an idiot level.

Why disturb a fascinating discussion by injecting myself? It seems both pointless and unkind. Mister Yeh was having a splendid time talking about the cost of starting a business in San Francisco, as compared to San Jose, or even godforbid Oakland.
And the difference in insurance rates was also enormous!
San Jose is NO place to raise a kid.
And neither is Oakland.
Nob Hill is.


I rather like mister Yeh. We haven't been introduced, nor have we met in any formal sense. But I'm quite familiar with his vibrant personality at this point, and both his vocabulary and his diction are excellent.
A splendid fellow, who still wears ironed shirts.
Neat sports coat, pressed slacks.
He's got style.



We're all getting older, some of us more reputably than others.

Mister Yeh has already gotten there.




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