Editor’s note: When he was able, I asked Tribune columnist Leon Emo to recount his nearly month-long experiences in the hospital. This is the first of a two-part series by Leon.
The monthly travelogue from the-ever itinerant Maderan, Leon Emo.
In my reminiscing about the 1960s, I have dwelled and probably bored you by meanderings into the canyons of my mind back in those smoke-filled days.
I missed the mules.
I remember starting out as a kid. We lived on the southeast corner of Dellavalle Avenue and Rush Street.
It is always a treat crossing the Golden Gate Bridge headed north. There is no toll traveling out of the City and the view of Alcatraz, Angel Island and sailboats below can be breathtaking.
School wouldn’t start until after Labor Day, or maybe when the harvest was in. I was too young to work for dad at his airport crop dusting business. The summer of 1959 seemed to be all fun, all day.
With the little fat guy in North Korea throwing around threats like baseballs at a Giants pre-game warm-up I was reminded of another tense time on the Korean Peninsula 45 years ago.