Growing up in Noe Valley in the 1950s - Revision history

Ccarlsson at 01:24, 10 March 2026

2026-03-10T01:24:38Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 18:24, 9 March 2026
Line 24:		Line 24:

	''Photo: courtesy Mitchell's Ice Cream''		''Photo: courtesy Mitchell's Ice Cream''

			[[Image:Exterior and marquee of Noe Theatre at 3984 24th Street between Noe and Sanchez Streets 1956 opensfhistory wnp5.50566.jpg\|800px]]

			'''Exterior and marquee of [[Noe Theater 1940s\|Noe Theater]] at 3984 24th Street between Noe and Sanchez Streets, 1956.'''

			''Photo: OpenSFHistory.org wnp5.50566''

	My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.		My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.

Ccarlsson: added photos

2026-03-10T01:21:44Z

added photos

← Older revision		Revision as of 18:21, 9 March 2026
Line 18:		Line 18:

	Our side of the hothouse—a fence divided our yards, but the hothouse was there first—served as a playroom. We invited the neighbor kids back there to play. We climbed on the roof, careful not to get pricked by the climbing rose that provided pink bouquets for our little yellow tea table. Mr. Anderson, his watery blue eye trained on us through the crack in the boards, knocked on the wood when we said bad words or socked each other.		Our side of the hothouse—a fence divided our yards, but the hothouse was there first—served as a playroom. We invited the neighbor kids back there to play. We climbed on the roof, careful not to get pricked by the climbing rose that provided pink bouquets for our little yellow tea table. Mr. Anderson, his watery blue eye trained on us through the crack in the boards, knocked on the wood when we said bad words or socked each other.

			[[Image:Mitchells Ice Cream c 1950s.jpg\|800px]]

			'''Mitchell's Ice Cream, c. 1950s.'''

			''Photo: courtesy Mitchell's Ice Cream''

	My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.		My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.

	My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at [[The Little Girl in the Window\|24th and Castro]]. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.		My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at [[The Little Girl in the Window\|24th and Castro]]. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.

			[[Image:154-56 27th Street c 1951 AAJ-0117.jpg]]

			'''154-56 27th Street, c. 1951.'''

			''Photo: San Francisco History Center, SF Public Library, AAJ-0117''

	[[Image:Church near Day circa 1951 northerly opensfhistory wnp14.12871.jpg\|800px]]		[[Image:Church near Day circa 1951 northerly opensfhistory wnp14.12871.jpg\|800px]]

Ccarlsson: added photo

2025-04-26T05:52:35Z

added photo

← Older revision		Revision as of 22:52, 25 April 2025
Line 22:		Line 22:

	My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at [[The Little Girl in the Window\|24th and Castro]]. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.		My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at [[The Little Girl in the Window\|24th and Castro]]. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.

			[[Image:Church near Day circa 1951 northerly opensfhistory wnp14.12871.jpg\|800px]]

			'''J-Church on Church Street near Day Street, c. 1951.'''

			''Photo: OpenSFHistory.org wnp14.12871''

	[[category:Noe Valley]] [[category:1950s]]		[[category:Noe Valley]] [[category:1950s]]

Ccarlsson: added new photo

2011-01-03T19:17:05Z

added new photo

← Older revision		Revision as of 12:17, 3 January 2011
Line 2:		Line 2:

	''by [http://kate-campbell.blogspot.com/ Kate Campbell]''		''by [http://kate-campbell.blogspot.com/ Kate Campbell]''

			[[Image:Kate 1952.jpg]]

			'''Kate Campbell, c. 1952, Noe Valley'''

			''Photo: Author's collection''

	'''Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s'''		'''Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s'''

Ccarlsson at 03:43, 2 January 2011

2011-01-02T03:43:23Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:43, 1 January 2011
Line 1:		Line 1:
	'''<font face = Papyrus> <font color = maroon> <font size = 4>"I was there..."</font></font> </font>'''		'''<font face = Papyrus> <font color = maroon> <font size = 4>"I was there..."</font></font> </font>'''

	''by Kate Campbell''		''by [http://kate-campbell.blogspot.com/ Kate Campbell]''

	'''Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s'''		'''Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s'''

Ccarlsson: moved Neighborhood Growing up in Noe Valley to Growing up in Noe Valley in the 1950s

2011-01-02T03:42:45Z

moved Neighborhood Growing up in Noe Valley to Growing up in Noe Valley in the 1950s

← Older revision	Revision as of 20:42, 1 January 2011
(No difference)

Ccarlsson: added page type and categories and a couple of links

2011-01-02T03:42:05Z

added page type and categories and a couple of links

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:42, 1 January 2011
Line 1:		Line 1:
	'''~~Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s[[Kate-Campbell~~.~~blogspot~~.~~com]]~~'''		'''<font face = Papyrus> <font color = maroon> <font size = 4>"I was there..."</font></font> </font>'''
	Noe Valley. I lived there once, on the hill, on the street that cleaves Twin Peaks, in a house with a window that pictured the world – San Francisco Bay, the Dutch Boy sign with the child mechanically waving a paint brush, cargo ships resting like logs by the docks.

	The city’s roar and diesel fumes roiled through my grandmother’s open front window. We watched TV, black and white Crusader Rabbit cartoons, played on ratty oriental carpets, broke the faux Chippendale furniture, ignored the framed prints from Sears, and relied on the house’s skylights to illuminate the gloom. When someone asks “where are you from,” images of growing up in the 1950s in Noe Valley rush in before I answer, then tell them the truth, in two words.		''by Kate Campbell''

	But there's more to the answer, in terms of memories and pungent sensory details. In that Irish enclave where my family had lived for several generations, my Great Aunt Eva lay dying of old age and widow’s despair in the back bedroom. My father lay drunk on the bedstead in the basement, while next door, Mr. Anderson, the neighborhood bachelor, pruned shrubs in his front garden. He had a hot house in the back, propagated cuttings from the nursery in Golden Gate Park where he worked, shared the strongest ones with my grandmother. He called the four of us kids the weeds.		'''Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s'''

			[[Noe Valley History\|Noe Valley]]. I lived there once, on the hill, on the street that cleaves Twin Peaks, in a house with a window that pictured the world – San Francisco Bay, the Dutch Boy sign with the child mechanically waving a paint brush, cargo ships resting like logs by the docks.

			The city’s roar and diesel fumes roiled through my grandmother’s open front window. We watched TV, black and white Crusader Rabbit cartoons, played on ratty oriental carpets, broke the ''faux'' Chippendale furniture, ignored the framed prints from Sears, and relied on the house’s skylights to illuminate the gloom. When someone asks “where are you from,” images of growing up in the 1950s in Noe Valley rush in before I answer, then tell them the truth, in two words.

			But there's more to the answer, in terms of memories and pungent sensory details. In that Irish enclave where my family had lived for several generations, my Great Aunt Eva lay dying of old age and widow’s despair in the back bedroom. My father lay drunk on the bedstead in the basement, while next door, Mr. Anderson, the neighborhood bachelor, pruned shrubs in his front garden. He had a hot house in the back, propagated cuttings from the nursery in Golden Gate Park where he worked, shared the strongest ones with my grandmother. He called the four of us kids "the weeds."

	Our side of the hothouse—a fence divided our yards, but the hothouse was there first—served as a playroom. We invited the neighbor kids back there to play. We climbed on the roof, careful not to get pricked by the climbing rose that provided pink bouquets for our little yellow tea table. Mr. Anderson, his watery blue eye trained on us through the crack in the boards, knocked on the wood when we said bad words or socked each other.		Our side of the hothouse—a fence divided our yards, but the hothouse was there first—served as a playroom. We invited the neighbor kids back there to play. We climbed on the roof, careful not to get pricked by the climbing rose that provided pink bouquets for our little yellow tea table. Mr. Anderson, his watery blue eye trained on us through the crack in the boards, knocked on the wood when we said bad words or socked each other.
Line 10:		Line 15:
	My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.		My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.

	My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at 24th and Castro. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.		My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at [[The Little Girl in the Window\|24th and Castro]]. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.

			[[category:Noe Valley]] [[category:1950s]]

Kcamp300: Neighborhood -- Childhood memories of Noe Valley

2010-12-31T19:09:02Z

Neighborhood -- Childhood memories of Noe Valley

New page

'''Childhood Memories of Noe Valley in the 1950s[[Kate-Campbell.blogspot.com]]'''
Noe Valley. I lived there once, on the hill, on the street that cleaves Twin Peaks, in a house with a window that pictured the world – San Francisco Bay, the Dutch Boy sign with the child mechanically waving a paint brush, cargo ships resting like logs by the docks.

The city’s roar and diesel fumes roiled through my grandmother’s open front window. We watched TV, black and white Crusader Rabbit cartoons, played on ratty oriental carpets, broke the faux Chippendale furniture, ignored the framed prints from Sears, and relied on the house’s skylights to illuminate the gloom. When someone asks “where are you from,” images of growing up in the 1950s in Noe Valley rush in before I answer, then tell them the truth, in two words.

But there's more to the answer, in terms of memories and pungent sensory details. In that Irish enclave where my family had lived for several generations, my Great Aunt Eva lay dying of old age and widow’s despair in the back bedroom. My father lay drunk on the bedstead in the basement, while next door, Mr. Anderson, the neighborhood bachelor, pruned shrubs in his front garden. He had a hot house in the back, propagated cuttings from the nursery in Golden Gate Park where he worked, shared the strongest ones with my grandmother. He called the four of us kids the weeds.

Our side of the hothouse—a fence divided our yards, but the hothouse was there first—served as a playroom. We invited the neighbor kids back there to play. We climbed on the roof, careful not to get pricked by the climbing rose that provided pink bouquets for our little yellow tea table. Mr. Anderson, his watery blue eye trained on us through the crack in the boards, knocked on the wood when we said bad words or socked each other.

My first crush, Michael Esterbrook, came over from across the street in his coonskin cap and we’d play saloon, Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone. I’d be Miss Kitty and try to trick him into a kiss, but my brothers were always there, lifting butterfly cocoons from the Shasta daisies or prying quartz rocks from the birdbath to use as ammo. I'd put nasturtiums and white iris in my hair, suck nectar from the flower tubes. Michael never kissed me, never lay down with me in my little doll’s bed.

My grandmother would call from a back window and we’d trudge with her, all four of us kids, to the grocery store at 24th and Castro. She’d buy lamb chops at the butcher shop, chat with the neighbors. We’d get free slices of baloney, wait for the 11 Hoffman bus to take us back up the hill with our sacks of canned peaches and Folgers coffee, back to where I’m from.