The fog makes some people lose their perspective, and for others it only
wraps with a great kindness the whole world and blots out all ugliness.
But upon everyone, upon the just and unjust, this San Francisco fog lays
its gentle hand lovingly and with an ineffable kindness.
A Block on Ashbury Heights
Sometimes in the afternoons when the mothers are out shopping and the
youngsters have not yet returned from school our block looks so deserted
and wind-swept and dull. The houses are so much alike. They all sit
there in a row with their poker faces like close-mouthed Yankees
refusing to divulge any secrets. But from the bow-windows where I sit
and type, in spite of their silence the house fronts have become
individualized into so many human stories.
I never stop to look out but somehow the stories get in through the
window. For instance, I would not be so rude as to stare at the family
washing which once a week is hung on the flat top of a neighbor's
garage, but those clothes up there have a way of flapping in the wind so
conspicuously that I cannot help see. There is the man of the house and
his, shall I say garments, kick themselves about like some staid old
deacon having his fling. Then there is the middle-sized bear whose
bloomers, billowed by the wind, become a ridiculous fat woman cut off at
the waist.
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