“What do you think about doing Grandma’s Celebration of Life on 10 Feb? Too weird or too perfect?” I texted to my aunt. She is retired military so I try to remember to talk dates in her language.
“Too karma [with a hug emoji]” she replied. And so the decision was made.
On February 10, 1976 my grandpa – my aunt’s dad and Grandma’s husband – died of a sudden and totally unexpected heart attack. I had just turned 8 and Linda was just a couple weeks away from turning 16. Although she was twice my age at the time, in reality we were both just kids.
The next hours and days were a blurry whirlwind of emotion and action. My aunt and grandma were in California. My parents and I were living in Montana. Within hours I was on a plane with my parents, taking a film roll's worth of photos of the mesmerizing clouds. I wondered if that was where Grandpa was now.
Other somewhat distant relatives trickled in from Michigan. It seemed like none of them had ever been to California before, so their funeral trip had an undertone of vacation. At least that what felt like to my wide-eyed 8-year-old self who had no idea what grieving looked like.
I can’t quite remember the order of events – it’s been 42 years and I was in second grade – but I think we all gathered in San Francisco a day or two before Grandpa’s funeral. Enough time for some awkward sightseeing.
It’s perfectly natural that my dad was the tour guide. I have no idea if he was appointed or if he simply saw a void and filled it. Either way, he lead a small caravan of family around the streets of San Francisco one foggy February night.
I’m sure we hit the highlights. The Golden Gate Bridge must have been visible, and we had to have twisted and turned down Lombard.
I vividly remember our tour of Chinatown. It was a very busy night, probably in anticipation of the Chinese New Year now that I think about it. It was loud and lively, with people smushed together on all the narrow sidewalks as my dad captained my grandma’s enormous 1970s white Pontiac. I was sitting on the starboard side on my mom’s lap…because you could live on the edge like that in 1976.
I can’t remember if my dad was doing anything other than steering, but suddenly the windshield wipers went haywire and the horn started blaring. Blaring without stop. A constant wail of a hearty, American-made 1970s car horn.
Everyone in Chinatown stopped and stared. Literally everyone, at least as far as I was concerned. People were pointing, laughing, my dad pushing buttons and flipping switches. Being eight, I was instantly mortified. I deftly slid off my mom’s lap into the footwell and tangled myself up in her feet. I was so embarrassed to have everyone looking at us!
I hung out with my mom’s shoes for quite a while. My dad kept driving. The horn kept blaring. I was horrified.
At some point a motorcycle cop entered the story. I’m guessing the horn summoned him. Adult conversations about messed up electrical systems happened. Then all I knew was our tour caravan was heading back to the hotel south of the city, now with a police escort.
But believe it or not, that was not the part of the evening that became a family story. No, that honor goes to the Doggie Diner.
The Doggie Diner was a small, Bay Area fast-food chain that started in 1949 (apparently closing for good in 1986). It specialized in hot dogs, as one might surmise. I am dumbfounded I never ate there. As a kid I was a ridiculously picky eater (hard to fathom now). Pretty much the only thing I would eat was hot dogs. I was a huge fan of Der Weinerschnitzel…and very brand loyal…so it is quite possible I refused to try The Doggie Diner even if offered. Silly little girl.
I therefore can not speak to the quality of the Doggie’s fare, but I can tell you that the Diners had by far the best signage EVER. Every Doggie Diner was capped by a 7-foot fiberglass weinerdog wearing a chef’s hat and bowtie. It was adorable if not a little creepy.
I’m not sure where we were heading during that portion of the tour that night, but we were out on 19th Avenue near San Francisco State. We might have been heading to the Golden Gate Bridge or Golden Gate Park. Or at least trying to.
When we passed the Doggie Diner on the corner of 19th Avenue and Junipero Serra, I was very excited and made sure everyone in the car admired the huge dog head.
A couple of minutes later, we saw another dog head. WOW! I had no idea there was another diner so close! So excited!
Then a few minutes later, another dog head! And then another!
The memories of an 8-year-old have their own reality, but I am going to say we passed at least four or five Doggie Diners that night. Except that, well, we didn’t.
My dad, who typically has a keen sense of direction, somehow got twisted around by the one-way streets and opaque fog banks. We actually circled the same San Francisco block multiple times, with the same Doggie Diner head first greeting us then mocking us with wide-eyed judgement on each drive-by.
I remember it being confusing at first. And then frustrating. And then, with the raw emotion of a funeral looming the next day, belly-achingly hysterical. The entire car was relieved to be crying with joy instead of despair as we circled that enormous glowing dog head again and again and again.
Today, after seeing the patch of grass tamped back down in front of Grandpa’s headstone which Grandma will now share, I asked Rob if we could take a little detour on our way to the airport.
It was a sparklingly gorgeous San Francisco day. No chance of getting lost in the fog this time.
Mr. Google had already told me that the Doggie Diner on 19th Avenue was long gone.
However, in true San Francisco fashion, the head from the very last Doggie Diner was saved and lovingly restored. Not only does it have a commemorative plaque, the head is an official San Francisco Landmark (no. 254) described as “…an excellent example of a three-dimensional iconic and flamboyant roadside commercial sign and is unique and rare in design.” Confirming its credibility, it is also a landmark on Google maps.
The past few days have been a wonderous swirl of emotions as we honored, remembered, celebrated, and released Grandma to her final resting place. It was a weekend of reminiscing and tears, with each other and with our own thoughts. For each of us, the oddest things would jog a memory or tears or smiles of gratitude and recognition.
Thanks for the memories, Doggie Diner Head. You were just what I needed today.
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