The Little Hill

Sometimes when I'm feeling the urge to return to my roots or fly to Paris for that matter I switch to Google Earth. Recently as I was thinking of more things I wouldn't let my kids do that my mom in her wisdom allowed us to do was climb Albany Hill. If you look on the map you'll see 620 Clayton, El Cerrito, the old homefront, and then southwest of that is Albany Hill. One of the first things you learn growing up in El Cerrito is that it is Spanish for "the little hill" of which the city of Albany stole from us and renamed. According to mapquest it's 1.76 miles from my childhood home.

To get there from 620 you have to walk,..down Lincoln or Central, past half your friends' homes from Harding Grade School, over the railroad tracks, across busy San Pablo Avenue, and make your way into uncharted territory no longer considered your neighborhood. I know that cars and busses were invented back then but I don't ever remember climbing Albany Hill after having been driven there. Which means maybe Mom didn't say it was OK. Hmmmm. At any rate, I remember several picnics at the top, a few run-ins with poison oak, and long private discussions with my girlfriends in 5th grade. Which means I was 9 at the time. I know Sheila, Helen, and I agreed to have a secret club and the secret planning for it and secret sandwiches and cookies we ate to celebrate it were all carried out in the secret bushes near the top of the hill.

The Woolfs went over the mountain to see what they could see

When you got to the top and looked over there was a perfect view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. Right below and across I-80 was Golden Gate Fields racetrack (I never went to the racetrack or hung out with shrimpy jockeys but Seabiscuit did and my high school graduating class had a few reunions there in the glass clubhouse.) It also provided a look at the original world headquarters of Jacuzzi and a great panoramic shot of THE ALBANY DUMP (capitalized out of great respect).

Looking at the other side of the hill from the racetrack

El Cerrito was an exciting place to grow up in the 50's and 60's. From the adobe clay that we dug up and made pots with or the close proximity to Berkeley and hanging out on Telegraph during it's heyday or the magical Sunset Cemetary that provided hours of fun for Hide and Seek, I called it home. It wasn't until I flew into John Wayne Airport from Sacramento last week and the security guard asked me where I was heading that I said, "I'm going home". I think it's the first time in all my moves and houses that I've actually felt that way since those days in El Cerrito. And I'm starting to figure it out. Geographically, in many ways, it feels the same in Dana Point. I'm not landlocked. When I need to find West I look towards the ocean. When I need to find East I look towards the hills. And when I need to find home, well I'm not looking anymore. I think I've found it.