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| John Dobson |
One of my
recreational pursuits is reading the weekly obituary column in the San
Francisco Chronicle. Most death
notices tell you next to nothing about the person who died: their name, dates
of birth and death, sometimes place of birth, surviving relatives, sometimes
occupation, and where and when any services will take place. That’s all. Still, it’s worth at least scanning them for the gems found
among them.
Sometimes I learn of the passing of someone I knew or know, more and more frequently as I age, of course. Last week there were announcements about two people I knew in life, albeit not well. The below-the-fold front page featured an article about John Dobson, the sidewalk astronomer. Born in China, he spent many of his 98 years teaching anyone who’d listen about the stars – and I don’t mean taking tourists to the homes of Hollywood celebrities.[1]
Many years
ago,[2]
my late husband, Rod Wolfer, and I were wandering around Golden Gate Park one
night, enjoying a hit of LSD. We
saw some activity on the sidewalk in front of the Academy of Sciences and went
to see what was going on. We heard
John’s call: “Come see the moon
and Saturn!” So we did. He had this huge telescope he’d made
from marine porthole glass and a sauna tube.[3] He taught others to make these
telescopes, now known as “Dobsonian” telescopes. He spoke enthusiastically about the
heavens and he made sure that everyone who came by got a chance to view them
through his telescope. This
happened probably around the time that John first founded the San Francisco
Sidewalk Astronomers, now an international organization known as the Sidewalk Astronomers. As you might imagine, this was quite a
fine experience to have while on an acid trip. I feel blessed to have had this experience. To John I say: “Hail the goer!”
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| Estelle (née Klein) Griffin |
The second
death of someone whose path through life crossed mine is of Estelle
Griffin. She was my neighbor
in the third place I lived in San Francisco, circa 1964-65, on McAllister
between Central and Masonic in the Fillmore District. We were three white girls living in a flat above a Chinese
laundry (hence we had zero hot water from about 6 am till about 5 pm). Estelle and Herman lived next door with
their kids. We did our laundry at
Estelle’s laundromat. There was an
elderly white couple who owned a corner grocery store across the street. This was the most racially mixed
neighborhood I’d ever lived in, and I was at a formative stage of my life, all
my senses open to new experiences and new ways of looking at life and the world. We met Estelle through our friend Karl
Klein and his older brother, Mike, who were Estelle’s nephews from New
York. I remember Estelle as being
warm and kind and competent. I
thought of her as being sophisticated and daring, an impression that seems,
from a bit of her obituary, to be the case.
All three
Kleins – Estelle (née Klein), Mike and Karl – exposed me to progressive
political thinking. I remember
Mike’s reading Hesse’s Siddhartha and
being really into Abbie
Hoffman’s Steal This Book (1971). They talked about the W.E.B.
DuBois Club and the Wobblies;
the Ukrainian Bakery was still operating in the neighborhood and one synagogue
still held services. I’m sure none
of them remembers me, but I remember them because they influenced me and helped
me evolve from the Republican politics of my family towards a more tolerant,
diverse, and socially aware person of the far left persuasion I am today. They were not the only influence, but they influenced me enough for me to remember
them this way after half a century.
So to Estelle, I say thanks and “Hail the goer!”