Introduction: The following reminiscence by George C. Sholin (son of Charles and Nellie Sholin) first appeared in The Sholin World Family History Book, 1990.  The book was edited, compiled and privately published by Virginia Sholin Smallwood, George's daughter.  It was a compilation of articles, recipes, letters and documents having to do with the family and ancestors of George C. Sholin and his first, and deceased, wife, Eva Claire World - hence the name of the book. At of this writing, March, 2006, George is ninety years old, still alert, and only recently retired.

Note: In the account below, George mentions his Danish grandfather, Rasmus Jensen, who with his youngest son, Ed, was in Nome, Alaska in 1900, the same time Andrew, Edward, Jonas, and his son, Edwin E. Sholin were there, all of them hoping to strike it rich!  Nome was not a big place.  One wonders if the Sholins met the Jensens there.]

A Peek into San Francisco's Past

by

George C. Sholin

Growing up in the city by the Golden Gate during the 1920s and 1930s was exciting.  San Francisco has changed a lot since then, but memories of those earlier days bring a feeling of nostalgia as I recall my boyhood experiences.

The South-of-Market district is now an industrial area where once stood numerous residential homes - - mostly two-story flats.  I was born in one of those lower flats at 14A Moss Street, a one-block street east of Seventh between Howard and Folsom.  The neighborhood was peaceful and mostly inhabited by Jewish families with a sprinkling of other races.

My own parents, Charles and Nellie, were of Scandinavian descent. As a lad of thirteen, Charles had emigrated from Sweden with his family and settled in Kansas where he enlisted in the United States Army and served in Cuba and the Philippines during the Spanish-American War.  Following his discharge, Dad served in the Manila police department for a few years before returning to the United States.  Arriving in San Francisco, he worked as a stevedore for awhile, then was employed as custodian for the Salvation Army Western Territorial Headquarters building at 115 Valencia Street.

Nellie, however, was a native Californian, born of Danish parents who had emigrated to California during the 1870s.

The family had a homestead near Bridgeville, a few miles inland from Eureka.  Mom was fond of telling how she and her three brothers rode to school on horseback, a distance of about five miles.  When Grandma died, Grandpa moved to Nome, Alaska, along with the youngest son.  Nellie and the two other brothers moved to Eureka to stay with their cousins.  Nellie became associated with the Salvation Army in Eureka, later moving to San Francisco as a cadet in their training school for officers.  Commissioned as an officer, she became one of the Salvation Army's early pioneers in the Hawaiian Islands.  Later she served in several California communities including Grass Valley, Pacific Grove, Sacramento and San Francisco.  Although she resigned her officership to marry Dad, she and her husband continued to give volunteer service to the Salvation Army for the rest of their lives. 

Two years after my birth in 1915, the family was augmented by the arrival of my younger sister, Crissie.  We were favored with a wonderful and loving home environment.  There was no smoking or drinking and not once can I recall harsh words between our parents.  In fact, Mom and Dad were highly respected by the neighbors and were often called upon in times of trouble.

One early memory of the flat at 14A Moss Street was the telephone on the south wall in the hallway.  It was mounted in a huge mahogany cabinet and required the use of nickels or slugs provided by the telephone company.  Every so often the company would empty the coin box and redeem payment for the slugs.

The parks were some distance away so as youngsters we enjoyed playing in the streets.  Roller skating was popular.  But often we would fashion a scooter out of a pair of skates, a board, and an old apple crate.  This was not unusual.  Purchasing toys was not as common as today, so the kids learned to make their own out of available materials - - a creative stimulus that is somewhat lacking in our modern times.  I think we were more appreciative and content with these self-made items too.

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And Halloween was not a trick-or-treat occasion for the kids on Moss Street.  One of the boys, Noel, lived in an upper flat nearby and each year his mother hosted a Halloween party for all the neighborhood children.  These parties were a lot more exciting than going door-to-door begging treats.

Crissie and I often spent our summer vacations in Santa Cruz at the Laverty farm just beyond the city limits.  This was a great experience for two city kids.  We helped plant corn and discovered that milk came from cows and goats.  We also picked ripe plums at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Lucking in Santa Cruz.  Mr. Lucking was a bus operator in that community and often let us ride to the nearby towns of Soquel and Capitola.

Another vacation spot for us was St. Dorothy's Rest at Camp Meeker in Sonoma County.  We spent many happy times at this resort operated by Dr. And Mrs. Lincoln and the Episcopal Church.  During the daylight hours there would be various activities, including hikes to the swimming pool at Camp meeker or to the "living tower" located at the top of a nearby hill.  This tower consisted of four tall trees spaced apart about 10 feet square between which about six levels of platforms had been constructed.  But the highlight of each day was the evening vespers service held in the small chapel near the resort's entrance.

One thing that remains vividly in my memory about Camp Meeker was my introduction to poison oak.  Several of the youngsters had received mild cases of the rash.  Foolishly, I tried to prove that I was immune by rubbing the leaves all over my arms and face.  Returning home from camp with a severe case of poison oak, my dad had me wash several times with a mixture of salt and vinegar to get rid of the rash.

Back in San Francisco, hiking became a favorite pastime.  We often would hike down to Rincoln Hill to pick berries and further down to the wharves on the bay to fish.  Today, Rincoln Hill can hardly be recognized as it serves at the western anchor for the San Francisco Bay Bridge.  Another favorite hike as to Twin Peaks and the sand dunes that then existed to the west.  There we would watch glider pilots flying off the slopes and into the breeze from the ocean beyond the dunes.

Dad had a woodworking shop down the block where he manufactured washboards, ironing boards, deck chairs and folding camp-stools that he sold to wholesalers and retailers in the city and throughout the state.

During San Francisco's Diamond Jubilee, my dad's business gave me a chance to become an entrepreneur at an early age.  The city's gala celebrations included huge parades down Market Street with crowds of onlookers. The idea of selling camp-stools along the parade route occurred to me so I enlisted the help of a few young friends.  Purchasing the items at cost from my dad, I sold them to parade watchers at 50 cents each.  My buddies were paid a fair commission for their help.  Profits from this early business venture made it possible for me to buy a new suit of clothes which gave me more pleasure than any suit I had been given previously.  Finally I had graduated to long pants!

Sam was a cat that made its home in Dad's shop.  It had a habit of resting on one of the work-benches near a nail box.  Each time my dad would reach for a nail, the cat would paw one out to him.  And the helpful cat never asked Dad for a raise.

Thinking of cats reminds me of the fishmonger who drove his wagon down Moss Street every few days.  To announce his arrival he would toot loudly on a horn that sounded as mournful as the fog horns of the bay, then shout "fresh fish."  As the customers arrived he would fold down the rear part of his wagon and ready the fish for sale by cutting off the heads and tails, tossing them away on the street.  Cats from all over the neighborhood would follow the fishmonger's wagon for the treats.  It was a sight to behold!

Other vendors who sold their wares door-to-door included the breadman and the milkman.  At first they came around in horse-drawn buggies.  But eventually they graduated to the new-fangled gasoline motor trucks.

Another interesting sight was the nightly visit of the street lamplighter.  Street illumination was from gas lamps and required services of a lamplighter who went from lamp to lamp performing his chores.  The kids on the block found pleasure in following him around before it got too dark to play outside.  Every evening, too, around dusk we would watch the horse-drawn wagons going west on Folsom Street, returning to the stables after the day's work was done.

But the fire station on Seventh Street, between Folsom and Harrison, was more interesting.  It was fun to go there and see the firemen slide down the poles when alarms sounded.  And our earliest memories included the sight of the fire boiler-trucks racing up the streets with teams of horses champing at their bits.

The policemen of that day were also colorful in their British style derby hats and long coats.  They patrolled their beats on foot and, as a result, were on more friendly terms with the people they served.  They were admired by the kids in the neighborhood.  In the downtown areas, khaki-clad mounted police patrolled traffic. 

Crissie and I attended the Harrison Primary School, a three-story brick building near Tenth and Harrison Streets.  We got along well in school, and I was privileged to become a member of one of the country's first junior traffic patrols.  One time I got into trouble while playing with a chum in the schoolyard. The principal caught us writing with chalk on the wood fence.  We were marched into our respective classrooms and instructed to hold out our hands, whereupon the principal made them smart by swatting the palms with a leather strap. The embarrassment in front of our classmates hurt more than the sting of the leather. But I learned to respect the property of others by that lesson.

One special day came when all the schools were dismissed early so we could attend a hero's welcome at the City Hall Plaza.  A huge crowd gathered to see and cheer Charles Lindbergh as he was greeted by the city's mayor following the aviator's famous trans-Atlantic solo flight.  I can't recall what was said, but I remember how young the aviator looked and his smile as he waved to the throng of admirers.  The applause was terrific.  This was one of the largest assemblies of people I have ever witnessed except, perhaps, for the tremendous crowds on VE Day following World War II.

Frank, a school chum, and I went to the City Hall at another time to view the rotunda.  As we were climbing up the east steps, suddenly the doors opened and Mayor James Rolph (later to become California's governor) emerged and called out to us, "hello boys."  That he would condescend to speak to us inflated our egos, and he became another one of our heroes.

Later we were graduated to the Franklin Grammar School on Eighth Street near where the freeway now stands.  This was closer to home and didn't require a long walk.  One fond recollection at this school was the small orchestra of eight or ten students.  This was an extra curricular activity in which the members were excused from other classes.  In those days, music was not usually taught in the public schools, the emphasis being largely on reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic.  The orchestra was comprised of youngsters who had been taught elsewhere.  I had learned to play the cornet, so I was asked to join.  That early introduction to the arts focused my attention on positive activities and kept me out of a lot of trouble in later years.

How did I get started on the cornet?  Well, Dad played the tuba in a Salvation Army band and, naturally, I thought whatever he did was worth emulating.  My first introduction was playing the drums.  Then dad found someone willing to sell a silver cornet for seven dollars and an exchange of some wooden articles that he had made.  As I grew older I became so proficient on the instrument that, when I finally enrolled at Everett Junior High School, I was immediately appointed student leader of the band.  Later I continued as solo cornetist at Commerce and Mission High Schools.

The high-school R.O.T.C. bands were something else!  Our khaki uniforms included wrap-around felt leggings.  What a chore it was to put on those leg coverings and how hot they would feel.  But we performed proudly as we joined other schools at the annual competitions on the Presidio parade grounds.

About the same time I was also commissioned as Bandmaster at the Salvation Army Corps on Hunt Street in San Francisco's skid row.  I recall seeing firemen from the station a short distance away, standing in the doorway of the Army hall listening to the services while keeping alert for the fire alarm.

But awful memories still linger about the family's walk down Howard Street to the Army hall.  Passing the many saloons and restaurants between Third and Fourth Streets was almost nauseating.  The sight of drunken derelicts lying on the sidewalks and the odors from bars and grills along the way still linger.  To this day I have trouble with the smell of garlic, still associating it with the awful aroma of booze and perspiration.

Happier thoughts involve the annual sunrise services on Mount Davidson.  It was an exhilarating experience to rise very early on Easter Sunday and join the crowds climbing towards the brilliantly lighted cross at the top of the hill.  And the view of San Francisco from the nearby Twin Peaks was breathtaking - and still is.

San Francisco was serviced by two competing street-car lines.  The Market Street Railway was more extensive and had a line running all the way to San Mateo.  The Municipal Railway served an area west of Twin Peaks, running through a tunnel under Twin Peaks to the Ingleside District and Fleishacker Zoo at the ocean.

Another Municipal line ran up Dolores Street past the old mission and up-hill through the west side of Dolores Park.  And you could ride anywhere in town for only five cents.

But one of the best street-car rides in the city other than the cable cars was the ride along San Francisco's north cliff area past the Presidio to Sutro's Museum and Bath House.  That line no longer exists, but it was an outstanding route at the time.  Just beyond Sutro's pools was the famous Cliff House where one could view Seal Rocks.  A walk down the hill took you to the beach and amusement park.  Further south you could see two large Dutch windmills at the west end of Golden Gate Park that were used to pump water to irrigate the park's lawns and gardens.

The famous park had been designed and planted by Scottish gardener John McLarren on what had formerly been sand dunes.  Its attractions included the Steinhart Museum, Aquarium and Japanese Tea Garden.

Each Sunday afternoon, crowds would gather in the tree-shaded area in front of the bandshell to sit and listen to concerts by the park band.  And the playground nearby featured donkey rides and kiddie-car rides for the children.  The park was also a popular meeting place for family and church picnics.

In those days you could ride a ferry to the East Bay for just five cents.  Another ferry made the run all the way from San Francisco to Vallejo.  Then came the bridges and faster commuting to the north and east bay areas.

Although the ferry rides were slower, they were more relaxing and far more exciting.  It was thrilling, though, to watch the bridges under construction.  But San Francisco has changed a lot.  My old hometown doesn't look the same anymore.  The city by the Golden Gate is still a lively community with many varied and wonderful attractions.  True, some of the old points of interest and ways of living are gone.  Yet fond memories of times past survive in the minds of old timers.

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