The Fast, & So Long to Hill

This week I signed up for a one day event to raise funds for an international food bank. I thought this is a great deal- a feast for famine relief: donate or raise $50, company pops in another $150 and there's a huge meal provided for participating! Only thing is or was, was not a feast for, but a fast for. Big difference it turns out.

I've been ignorant that part of Ramadan and its month long fast from sun up to sun down (longer at the beginning of the 30 days)- is to empathize with those less fortunate. Most- all? cultures have fasting as part of their beliefs and it's an impressive credo. I decided I could not do without water so I was not completely all in, but in as much as I reasoned I could be.

Getting up early to load up on coffee (that which I would miss the most), and breakfast of toast and jam, I was ready. Missing the regular meals of a later breakfast and lunch was not so difficult as I don't really load up on either but I missed being able to constantly snack. Free time? Go peruse and have a snack. Walking by the microkitchen, grab a little bite. Without, that was difficult. The day seemed long. I was irritable by 6:30pm (sorry Maria). And this includes my stop at an office on the 7th floor- we sometimes get their mail by mistake. Whenever I bring something to them, I grab a tiny chocolate from their offering bowl (especially since their reception station is empty) and as I was munching on my Mr.Goodbar, it seemed to taste really, really good. Oh, no! I couldn't spit out the melted goo but felt plenty guilty and a tiny bit out of control. I liked the experience and the purpose behind it.

A regular customer at my Peet's store died earlier this month. Mr. Hill. Hillel Narin (sounds like a Star Trek name) or Hilly as his friends called him, was in my experience at the Fillmore Peets store a benefactor for myself, the community and the staff. I know that some of them may have found him to be a bit overbearing, or too personal and perhaps he was. But I do know that he supported our efforts, did not mind irritating the powers above (not the Gods, but the employers who think of themselves as Gods) with suggestions that they did not want to hear. In his day, he owned a noted SF Jazz club, Basin Street West and has reel to reel recordings of some great musicians playing in the club. I hope someone saves these! For a long time, he liked to pay for his tab in dollar coins. His morning hello's were always in a sing song voice- which if one is recovering from 3 hours of sleep might have been too friendly of a greeting to respond to.

He always supported, financially our fund-raising efforts for La Casa DeLas Madres (home for battered women and their children) as for three straight years we raised more money than any store in the entire company. And this, which he and another did not want any acknowledgment of; during my last week the staff of the store- a big band version of present and past alumni put together a picnic for me. Walking down a hill at Golden Gate Park, my friend Bruce handed me an envelope from Mr. Hill and another benefactor. It was an envelope of big bucks- enough to cover my rent for several months. Just a thank you note and when I attempted to thank in person, I would be cut off with just these words from him- thank you. Mr. Hill, thank you.

And thank you for trying to get Shinjo's (Giant outfielder of 2002 from Japan) autograph. He lived in your building but always refused your request to sign a ball for Dexter. A cafe is brightened by people engaging in conversation- I'm always a bit saddened to see cafes where everyone sits with a laptop, silent. A cafe should have animation, regular groups of everyday customers- the congregation, cadence and a vibe, noise and the rustling of papers, people writing, laughter, arguments! Mr. Hill was always part of that. And always will be.
2197 Fillmore Street. 1995-2011.