A woman takes the microphone and makes everyone sing "San Francisco," followed by a prayer and a moment of silence for the thousands killed and 300,000 rendered homeless 89 years ago. As the First Nationwide Bank clock hits 5:12 am, police and fire engine sirens wail at once, echoing off the tall buildings downtown.
For some reason, mayoral flack Noah Griffin is introduced to sing "San Francisco" again. Griffin is a big gregarious guy with large teeth and a great voice, a Nipsey Russell with pipes: "Tell me you're the heart of all the Golden West/ San Francisco, welcome me home again/ I'm coming home to go wandering no more!"
The handful of survivors sit in chairs on a small riser, a pastiche of hearing aids, wrinkly faces and gravely voices. The crowd quiets to hear their stories.
Albert Woodson, 91, lived at an orphanage out in the sand dunes. He doesn't say much about the quake and instead dives into a long, rambling summation of his life. He got a job at the Palace Hotel, delivering flowers and working in a nursery. He met Mr. Hearst one day, and sold him some redwoods. He became an expert on gardening, hosting a radio show on NBC before working in television for many years on the program Digging With Albert, and teaching at various colleges. He winds up his time this morning with the traditional sign-off, "Goodbye and good gardening!"
Dr. Gene Cantu, 89, takes the microphone.
"I'm a San Franciscan. I'm still married to the same woman that I married 58 years ago."
"Is she here?" asks the host.
"No," replies Gene flatly. "She wouldn't get out of bed."
Asked to remember any stories about the earthquake, Gene launches into his version:"We were living on Taylor Street, near Grace Cathedral. The bulk of the earthquake struck through that area. The chimney came through the roof and killed one of my brothers. My other brother developed meningitis. We were living at Portsmouth Square, across from the old Hall of Justice. He died there. I had a sister that went to the Jane Parker School, which was the only girl's grammar school in San Francisco, on Broadway. I've known most of the people in North Beach, and have known them for most of my life, I guess. And that's it. I love this place, and it's unfortunate that most people -- too many people -- aren't interested in what's happening. They hope somebody else will take care of it. That never happens. It takes a lot of people to try and change the changes that are necessary to make this city again something that it used to be, because it certainly is not now. That's my observation. That's it."
Cora Lee is 94, but will turn 95 in a few weeks, so everyone sings happy birthday. Her memory is vivid: "The morning of the earthquake, we were living on Fillmore Street. My father had a fruit store there, and he, of course, got up real early to come down to the market to buy his vegetables, and he never came back. He was killed downtown. He was talking to some men in front of Polladini's -- the fish place -- and the earthquake came, and he got frightened and he started to run across the street, and a pole came down and killed him. So my mother was left with the four children. She had to go out and work. And close down the store -- nobody wanted to run the store. So my mother went out and worked for 25 cents an hour cleaning houses, and she raised us four children. And by the way, I think she did a very good job."
Richard Gross is next: "I was born in San Francisco in 1903. I'm a true San Franciscan. My father was born here in 1876. He was a member of a club called the Centennial Club, a hundred years after independence. A few days after the earthquake, my folks were walking with me and we met another couple, Mr. and Mrs. Brownstone, with a little girl. The little girl was crying. My father asked why the little girl was crying. Her father said, 'She loves soup. And you know, we can't have a fire.' The National Guard and the Army were patrolling the streets with instructions to shoot anyone with a fire. My father said, 'We have a little brick stove on the curbstone, and it's only a few blocks up. If you'll walk with us, we'll make the baby some soup.' Which they did. The first day I met my future wife I fed her, and I've been feeding her ever since."
Marion Cowen, 96, remembers a particularly sad story: "There was a fire that got started, called the Ham and Eggs Fire, in Hayes Valley. One woman insisted on cooking her breakfast, so the story went. And of course, that burned about eight or 10 blocks. It really was the most tragic fire in San Francisco, because on Van Ness at Hayes -- took up the whole block -- was the old Mechanics Pavilion. Where the county fairs had been held. So when the earthquake struck, they had to take hundreds of people over to somewhere -- the hospitals were not available as a whole -- to the Mechanics Pavilion. I've heard various numbers, from 500 to a thousand. When the Ham and Eggs Fire reached that, of course it burnt. There was no time to remove all of the people. And it was the most tragic thing that happened then. So all the nurses could do was to chloroform the people there, and, of course, that was the end of many."
There's one more woman on the dais.
The hosts asks, "Do you want to talk to us for a minute?"
"No," she answers.
Walter Strand, 92, leaps up to the stage. We don't exactly know if he's a survivor, but he's very spry: "I just got back from a pleasure trip. I drove my mother-in-law to the airport ... Look at all those tall buildings, nobody jumping out of them anymore ... We were so poor I couldn't even pay attention ... The nice thing is that you're all here. I'm glad you came to visit me ... I want you to know that San Francisco is in a class by itself. Always has been, always will be. And when you have people like you folks here, it's just great to be appreciated. Thank your families for settling here. And thank the South of Market Boys for their foresight in keeping this wonderful occasion going. Please don't let it die down."
Then everyone wanders into the lobby of the First Nationwide Bank for coffee and pastries -- survivors first.
Address all correspondence to: Slap Shots, c/o SF Weekly, 425 Brannan, San Francisco, CA 94107; Fax: (415) 777-1839; e-mail: SlapshawtsBy Jack Boulware