Sunday Morning Around the Streets Where I Live ...

Endless are the subjects to snap.  Taking walks on these streets is also nice and easy because few people share them. Welcome to Piedmont, CA --- but half a block from where I live.

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During the roaring twenties, Pdedmont  had more millionaires per square mile than any city in the United States. It was once a part of Oakland, until incorporating in 1908.

Actually, the Oakland-Piedmont border technically cuts through my apartment building, as it does other nearby homes (something to do with, in haste, using sewer lines for boundaries), so it would seem that I sleep in Oakland, and do my laundry up the hall -- in Piedmont. 

And we are only passing through what some have called the "lower slobovia" of Piedmont. Or, by another person's telling,  hamburger gulch. Farther up the hills, higher into the city, there are more spectacular dwellings. But my favorite of all the houses I have seen in the higher or lower sections is this one, in the lower:

Photos can't do it justice.  Once on walk, I came upon its owner of decades, and we chated about his home, and I could not believe that in all the years, nobody had ever stopped to inquire about its remarkable architecture or history.  

I think of these as weeping horns.

The city has a populating of around only 10,000.  Among luminaries who once lived here, George Schultz, Al Davis, Clint Eastwood.

Jack London, then part of a bohemian arts community,  lived on Scenic Avenue in what would become Piedmont when he wrote, The Call of the Wild. That may be his best book.

She seemed willing to pose while I snapped, but once I moved up half a step, she flashed off. They are such snobs!

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A typical house on the Oakland street where I live.

The front yard of my apartment building down the block, credit the property management company  hired by a new owner who bought the place last year.  They loved to self-acclaim their many interior cosmetic makeovers, and then tore up the lush shrubbery out front.  Last Year. Here you see Rose Laura, which I've named after Laura, who planted  the bush and  who was resident manager for the previous owners, for many years, but was not kept on.  In fact, this new company of robotic airheads who carry on like on an occupying force off a space ship, refuse to hire a resident manager, in violation of CA laws.  Laura  remains my and many others (underground) personal manager. 

I enjoyed, from another green chair, listening to the lady talking to her dog, as if they had been a devoted couple for many years. I hadn't the nerve to snap a photo of the two when intimately close, and then asked, and she said, yes, and of course the whole picture fell apart and soon they were on their way.

Next: My abstract minimals. Going for tiny and obscure. A friend of the weed.