Yeah, the 16th Street Station gets me every time I see it. I don’t see it as it is now, I see it as it was when I could get a chocolate milk and powdered donuts at the snack bar as we waited for the Southern Pacific engines to come by.
And I see the Key System platform suspended in space over West Oakland, as we whiz by in the carpool lane. The old trans bay terminal in the City was the end of the line.
That bridge, that bridge, they’re tearing it down. And I seem to be only one of the few that remembers it now. The farther I go back, the more I have the time to wonder where that old smokestack by 80 was that dad would point out.
The City is always there, and always on my mind. A day doesn’t pass that I don’t recall someone or something that history has left behind. Who knew when I was a kid that I’d get so sentimental .
And every morning, crossing Market Street, I see it like it’s something new, since I always see it differently through my history tinted glasses. As MUNI F historic cars go by, I wonder if the passengers know what they are riding.
This City we inherited I can never leave for long. But too much time spent in it, and I just see how it’s been changing on me as each year passes. And then I think I’d be better off not looking too closely, since it’s not the City dad once knew. But then, that’s history for you-always changing. Changing me, and changing you.