Thursday, August 11, 2005
Old Friends - August 11, 2005
As time slips away, we tend to lose touch with old friends. When Bob Bodnar, a former boss I hadn’t seen in 12 years, saw me on Good Morning America, he e-mailed and invited my partner Greta and me to attend a Michael McDonald concert at the old Paul Masson Winery in the hills above Saratoga, a beautiful little town near San Jose. We decided to go.
Being with Bob and his wife was a treat. They had been married for seven years, divorced for five, and remarried for 14 years. The concert was sensational and when the night ended, I said to Greta, “I can’t believe it’s over; I don’t know when we’ll see them again.”
Since we were in the Bay Area, I told Greta I wanted to visit two other old friends who live there. The next day we drove to Santa Cruz to reunite with Charlie Canfield, who I hadn’t seen in 11 years. We had been in the Navy together during the Viet Nam war. Our memories aren’t of combat, rather of raising hell together in ports like Hong Kong and Manila.
Charlie has done well. He owns the Boardwalk, the amusement park on the beach in Santa Cruz. Plus, he’s acquired the Toyota and Subaru dealerships and a couple of Santa Cruz banks. But none of that matters. What matters is he hasn’t changed. Our friendship picked up right where it left off after all of these years. Charlie and his wife Sherrie have such refreshing outlooks on life, it was good for us to be with them. We vowed to see each other more often.
Next, it was off to see old friend number three, my mom, in Santa Rosa. And while our visit was as wonderful as it always is, something came up that led me to see a fourth old friend on this trip. Visiting George hadn’t been planned.
George and I had worked together at Victoria Station, the prime rib and boxcars restaurant chain popular in the 1970s. We had always had a special friendship but had only seen each other twice in 20 years.
The reason for our unscheduled visit wasn’t pleasant. George’s son was the Boy Scout leader who had been hit and killed by lighting while hiking near Mt. Whitney five days before. Seeing George was important to me.
I stopped by his home in San Rafael on the way from Mom’s to the airport. His life had been hell for the previous four days. And yet he was able to laugh and smile occasionally—he’s that sort of guy—although a dagger was embedded in his heart.
He said, “During times like this, many people don’t know what to say or do. The worst is if they do nothing. You need to hear from friends.” Our time together was brief. And while visiting my other three old friends was special in each case, the fourth visit, the unscheduled one, was the most significant.
I will remember George’s words and promised myself that whenever I hear of a friend going through adversity or a tragedy, the worst thing to do is nothing.
Being with Bob and his wife was a treat. They had been married for seven years, divorced for five, and remarried for 14 years. The concert was sensational and when the night ended, I said to Greta, “I can’t believe it’s over; I don’t know when we’ll see them again.”
Since we were in the Bay Area, I told Greta I wanted to visit two other old friends who live there. The next day we drove to Santa Cruz to reunite with Charlie Canfield, who I hadn’t seen in 11 years. We had been in the Navy together during the Viet Nam war. Our memories aren’t of combat, rather of raising hell together in ports like Hong Kong and Manila.
Charlie has done well. He owns the Boardwalk, the amusement park on the beach in Santa Cruz. Plus, he’s acquired the Toyota and Subaru dealerships and a couple of Santa Cruz banks. But none of that matters. What matters is he hasn’t changed. Our friendship picked up right where it left off after all of these years. Charlie and his wife Sherrie have such refreshing outlooks on life, it was good for us to be with them. We vowed to see each other more often.
Next, it was off to see old friend number three, my mom, in Santa Rosa. And while our visit was as wonderful as it always is, something came up that led me to see a fourth old friend on this trip. Visiting George hadn’t been planned.
George and I had worked together at Victoria Station, the prime rib and boxcars restaurant chain popular in the 1970s. We had always had a special friendship but had only seen each other twice in 20 years.
The reason for our unscheduled visit wasn’t pleasant. George’s son was the Boy Scout leader who had been hit and killed by lighting while hiking near Mt. Whitney five days before. Seeing George was important to me.
I stopped by his home in San Rafael on the way from Mom’s to the airport. His life had been hell for the previous four days. And yet he was able to laugh and smile occasionally—he’s that sort of guy—although a dagger was embedded in his heart.
He said, “During times like this, many people don’t know what to say or do. The worst is if they do nothing. You need to hear from friends.” Our time together was brief. And while visiting my other three old friends was special in each case, the fourth visit, the unscheduled one, was the most significant.
I will remember George’s words and promised myself that whenever I hear of a friend going through adversity or a tragedy, the worst thing to do is nothing.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Victoria Station - A Portend to Future Success
Victoria Station Jan 1970 - Success on the way
"Funny about restaurants. Some open with
great fanfare and never get off the ground,
whereas others open quietly and are eternally
crowded from the first hour onward. The
latter phenomenon would seem to be the
happy fate of Victoria Station, an imaginative
collection of seven freight cars grouped
around a “station” entrance at the foot
of Broadway.
The wheels parked outside attest to
the types inside: Ferraris, Alfas, Jags,
Fiats and MG’s. Those old freight cars
are there to stay but the young owners
are obviously going places. . . . "
—Herb Caen, San Francisco Chronicle, January, 1970
"Funny about restaurants. Some open with
great fanfare and never get off the ground,
whereas others open quietly and are eternally
crowded from the first hour onward. The
latter phenomenon would seem to be the
happy fate of Victoria Station, an imaginative
collection of seven freight cars grouped
around a “station” entrance at the foot
of Broadway.
The wheels parked outside attest to
the types inside: Ferraris, Alfas, Jags,
Fiats and MG’s. Those old freight cars
are there to stay but the young owners
are obviously going places. . . . "
—Herb Caen, San Francisco Chronicle, January, 1970
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Victoria Station Incorporated - San Francisco - 1970s
There is a book coming about Victoria Station, to be published in November or December, 2005, titled: "Prime Rib and Boxcars. Whatever Happened to Victoria Station?"
The author is Tom Blake, a former Victoria Station executive.
If you ever dined at a Victoria Station, or worked there, share your experience. E-mail me at TPBlake@aol.com or visit www.findingloveafter50.com.
More posts later.
The author is Tom Blake, a former Victoria Station executive.
If you ever dined at a Victoria Station, or worked there, share your experience. E-mail me at TPBlake@aol.com or visit www.findingloveafter50.com.
More posts later.
