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Affaleen (Eileen)Hanson

January 14, 1904 - December 22, 1978

eileen

My Aunt Eileen never liked her given name, Affaleen, and never mentioned it. That was what it was, however, according to the 1910 census. I have no idea why it was given to her. Perhaps some unknown relative passed it on to her.

Being four years older, I gained the impression from my mother that the two sisters weren’t that close growing up. My mother was much closer to my Uncle Mardin who was sixteen months younger than her.

Consequently, there’s not much to say about Eileen’s childhood. Based upon the few comments shared by my mother, Eileen must have been independent when they moved to Oakland after their parent’s divorce, and my grandfather took Lillian as a new wife.

My mother did tell me that Eileen had a first husband for a brief period of time. Apparently, it was an abusive marriage, and it lasted only a short time. Again, Eileen never mentioned her first husband, and was fortunate enough to marry George Hansen, a saint that waited on her hand and foot.

George, I’m told, was a “soda jerk” at a drugstore when Eileen met him. George did tell me that he attended U.C. Berkeley for about a year. Perhaps, this was his part-time job while going to school. In any event, George joined the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company after they were married. Around this time they moved to Livermore, about thirty miles east of Oakland where George had an insurance route. When World War II started, George was drafted. He and Eileen moved to Missouri (probably Ft. Leonard Wood) where he was a driver for a Colonel.

George, like any good salesman, had a gregarious way with people. He was always exceptionally polite, and I can easily see how he was “selected” for this kind of job.

Eileen adopted a Southern accent while they were there. She apparently thought that being a Southern Belle provided a degree of social class.

After the War, they moved back to Livermore where George resumed his job with Metropolitan Life. I vaguely remember the house. If I recall correctly, George and Eileen moved to El Cerrito, a suburban town between Oakland and Richmond in the East Bay around the late 1940’s. Their house sat on a hillside with a magnificent view of the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.

We would get together with the Hansens for Christmas each year, alternating between the Bay Area and Auburn. The El Cerrito house had a glassed in back porch where I slept during our visits. These were the days of radio shows before television. There was a Sunday morning radio show that dramatized the Gold Rush characters of San Francisco. It was like a history lesson of San Francisco’s early days up to around the beginning of the 20th century. When I looked out at the twinkling lights of the Bay Bridge and skyline of San Francisco from the back porch, it was like a stage setting for these stories about the magical “Baghdad by the Bay,” as Herb Caen, a local columnist described San Francisco.

We almost never actually went to San Francisco on these visits. My father hated to drive in big city traffic, and we didn’t have the money to spend on tourism. We did actually make a couple of trips to the City, as locals called San Francisco. I remember going to the DeYoung Museum, and walking through China Town. There was a bookstore on the north side of Union Square that I especially liked. This was a time before there was a book mega store in every shopping mall.

There were two things uniquely San Francisco. The first was the cable cars, which were just as fun as they are today. The second was the traffic signals. They were old fashioned, cast iron signal heads that had little wigwag “Stop” and “Go” signs that swiveled out from the side of the box. When the light changed from green to red (there was no yellow) the signal rang a bell that made a counterpoint to the chiming cable car bells.

These visits to Aunt Eileen and Uncle George were happy, celebratory affairs. We had large family dinners, and the discussion was light on family argument. I can only remember a couple of occasions were my father and George got into heated discussions that had more to do with alcohol than on the topics. That said, George and my father were on good behavior, especially because they were under heavy supervision from my mother and Eileen.

By the 1950’s, George was doing well, and we began to eat out more. George and Eileen belonged to a social dancing group that met every Saturday night as one of a number of restaurants.

spengers

Consequently, he had a repertoire of good restaurants for us to visit. My favorite was Spenger’s located at the foot of University Avenue in Berkeley. These were the days when Italian families owned restaurants that served seafood caught by their own fishing fleets.

Not only was most of the fish local and fresh, you could get huge abalone and swordfish steaks accompanied by steak fries to die for.

Pat and I have visited Spenger’s many times over the years. It’s now owned by a large restaurant chain, and the quality and presentation of the meals just isn’t the same.

By the time that I was through college and working in the Bay Area, I would make Friday overnight visits to the Hansen’s home in San Leandro. By around 1960 they had moved into another house in which bordered on the south side of Oakland. These were wonderful visits. George and Eileen, having no children, seemed to enjoy my company. The routine was cocktails, a fish dinner, and TV.

I never knew anyone that adhered to such a rigid routine as the Hansens did. I actually envied them for it. Their life was so their own that they never had to be inconvenienced by outside demands. During the week, George usually did light housekeeping and the laundry before he started his insurance route. On Fridays, it was a fish meal at home or out. Saturday nights were with the dance club, and Sundays were early morning church and TV between snoozes.

This routine continued into retirement. George traded work for golf and became a part-time tour guide on trips with their friends. The routine ended when Eileen became ill, and subsequently died.

I never envisioned that my mother would become angry with George. She always held him up as a paragon of success to my father. Within a year of Eileen’s death, however, George married a woman who had been on his insurance collection route. Lucille was a widow who lived in Oakland not far from where the Hansens lived.

My mother had a fit, and accused George over the phone of not having proper respect for the memory of his wife and her sister by remarrying so soon after her death. Frankly, I had never seen my mother so angry at anyone, let alone a relative.

Fortunately, this blew over, at least on the surface of their relationship. My parents and George treated each other with mutual civility. We didn’t share Christmas or other holidays together any more, however. My parents went to visit George and Lucille on several occasions that I can remember. I don’t think they ever came to Grass Valley, though.

Part of the remedy was that Lucille was a likable person. It was hard to fault either of them for wanting to have companionship in their later life. George sold his home and moved into Lucille’s cozy little two-story house. They had a lush little back yard with a terraced hillside that nourished a whole medley of coastal shrubs and flowers.

In many ways, Lucille reminded us of Eileen. She had many of the same traits, and said that George reminded her of her first husband. The enjoyed traveling, gardening and dancing, as did Eileen.

I and my family made a number of visits to their home when we were in the Bay Area. My last visit to see them was around the middle 1990’s. I discovered that George was becoming senile; he thought that I was my father. He became frustrated and couldn’t understand why Lucille and I weren’t agreeing with him.

The next time I called to see if we could come visit, we were told by Lucille that it would “be inconvenient.” We sent Christmas cards for several more years. But that was it. They are no longer listed in the phone book, and I presume George as passed on. I have to go to the Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland and see if George is there in the niche next to Eileen.

You will note that I’ve had more to say about George than Eileen. On reflection, I think our family relationship revolved around George. At the end, however, blood must be thicker than water, because he started to drop away from us after Eileen died until he was no more.

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Affaleen (Eileen)Hanson January 14, 1904 - December 22, 1978 My Aunt Eileen never liked her given name, Affaleen, and never mentioned it. That was what it was, however, according to the 1910 census. I have no idea why it was given to her. Perhaps some unknown relative passed it on to her. Being four years older, I gained the impression from my mother that the two sisters weren’t that close growing up. My mother was much closer to my Uncle Mardin who was sixteen months younger than her. Consequently, there’s not much to say about Eileen’s childhood. Based upon the few comments shared by my mother, Eileen must have been independent when they moved to Oakland after their parent’s divorce, and my grandfather took Lillian as a new wife. My mother did tell me that Eileen had a first husband for a brief period of time. Apparently, it was an abusive marriage, and it lasted only a short time. Again, Eileen never mentioned her first husband, and was fortunate enough to marry George Hansen, a saint that waited on her hand and foot. George, I’m told, was a “soda jerk” at a drugstore when Eileen met him. George did tell me that he attended U.C. Berkeley for about a year. Perhaps, this was his part-time job while going to school. In any event, George joined the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company after they were married. Around this time they moved to Livermore, about thirty miles east of Oakland where George had an insurance route. When World War II started, George was drafted. He and Eileen moved to Missouri (probably Ft. Leonard Wood) where he was a driver for a Colonel. George, like any good salesman, had a gregarious way with people. He was always exceptionally polite, and I can easily see how he was “selected” for this kind of job. Eileen adopted a Southern accent while they were there. She apparently thought that being a Southern Belle provided a degree of social class. After the War, they moved back to Livermore where George resumed his job with Metropolitan Life. I vaguely remember the house. If I recall correctly, George and Eileen moved to El Cerrito, a suburban town between Oakland and Richmond in the East Bay around the late 1940’s. Their house sat on a hillside with a magnificent view of the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. We would get together with the Hansens for Christmas each year, alternating between the Bay Area and Auburn. The El Cerrito house had a glassed in back porch where I slept during our visits. These were the days of radio shows before television. There was a Sunday morning radio show that dramatized the Gold Rush characters of San Francisco. It was like a history lesson of San Francisco’s early days up to around the beginning of the 20th century. When I looked out at the twinkling lights of the Bay Bridge and skyline of San Francisco from the back porch, it was like a stage setting for these stories about the magical “Baghdad by the Bay,” as Herb Caen, a local columnist described San Francisco. We almost never actually went to San Francisco on these visits. My father hated to drive in big city traffic, and we didn’t have the money to spend on tourism. We did actually make a couple of trips to the City, as locals called San Francisco. I remember going to the DeYoung Museum, and walking through China Town. There was a bookstore on the north side of Union Square that I especially liked. This was a time before there was a book mega store in every shopping mall. There were two things uniquely San Francisco. The first was the cable cars, which were just as fun as they are today. The second was the traffic signals. They were old fashioned, cast iron signal heads that had little wigwag “Stop” and “Go” signs that swiveled out from the side of the box. When the light changed from green to red (there was no yellow) the signal rang a bell that made a counterpoint to the chiming cable car bells. These visits to Aunt Eileen and Uncle George were happy, celebratory affairs. We had large family dinners, and the discussion was light on family argument. I can only remember a couple of occasions were my father and George got into heated discussions that had more to do with alcohol than on the topics. That said, George and my father were on good behavior, especially because they were under heavy supervision from my mother and Eileen. By the 1950’s, George was doing well, and we began to eat out more. George and Eileen belonged to a social dancing group that met every Saturday night as one of a number of restaurants. Consequently, he had a repertoire of good restaurants for us to visit. My favorite was Spenger’s located at the foot of University Avenue in Berkeley. These were the days when Italian families owned restaurants that served seafood caught by their own fishing fleets. Not only was most of the fish local and fresh, you could get huge abalone and swordfish steaks accompanied by steak fries to die for. Pat and I have visited Spenger’s many times over the years. It’s now owned by a large restaurant chain, and the quality and presentation of the meals just isn’t the same. By the time that I was through college and working in the Bay Area, I would make Friday overnight visits to the Hansen’s home in San Leandro. By around 1960 they had moved into another house in which bordered on the south side of Oakland. These were wonderful visits. George and Eileen, having no children, seemed to enjoy my company. The routine was cocktails, a fish dinner, and TV. I never knew anyone that adhered to such a rigid routine as the Hansens did. I actually envied them for it. Their life was so their own that they never had to be inconvenienced by outside demands. During the week, George usually did light housekeeping and the laundry before he started his insurance route. On Fridays, it was a fish meal at home or out. Saturday nights were with the dance club, and Sundays were early morning church and TV between snoozes. This routine continued into retirement. George traded work for golf and became a part-time tour guide on trips with their friends. The routine ended when Eileen became ill, and subsequently died. I never envisioned that my mother would become angry with George. She always held him up as a paragon of success to my father. Within a year of Eileen’s death, however, George married a woman who had been on his insurance collection route. Lucille was a widow who lived in Oakland not far from where the Hansens lived. My mother had a fit, and accused George over the phone of not having proper respect for the memory of his wife and her sister by remarrying so soon after her death. Frankly, I had never seen my mother so angry at anyone, let alone a relative. Fortunately, this blew over, at least on the surface of their relationship. My parents and George treated each other with mutual civility. We didn’t share Christmas or other holidays together any more, however. My parents went to visit George and Lucille on several occasions that I can remember. I don’t think they ever came to Grass Valley, though. Part of the remedy was that Lucille was a likable person. It was hard to fault either of them for wanting to have companionship in their later life. George sold his home and moved into Lucille’s cozy little two-story house. They had a lush little back yard with a terraced hillside that nourished a whole medley of coastal shrubs and flowers. In many ways, Lucille reminded us of Eileen. She had many of the same traits, and said that George reminded her of her first husband. The enjoyed traveling, gardening and dancing, as did Eileen. I and my family made a number of visits to their home when we were in the Bay Area. My last visit to see them was around the middle 1990’s. I discovered that George was becoming senile; he thought that I was my father. He became frustrated and couldn’t understand why Lucille and I weren’t agreeing with him. The next time I called to see if we could come visit, we were told by Lucille that it would “be inconvenient.” We sent Christmas cards for several more years. But that was it. They are no longer listed in the phone book, and I presume George as passed on. I have to go to the Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland and see if George is there in the niche next to Eileen. You will note that I’ve had more to say about George than Eileen. On reflection, I think our family relationship revolved around George. At the end, however, blood must be thicker than water, because he started to drop away from us after Eileen died until he was no more.

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