I have given myself over to the theory that the Feds have in the interest of brevity or clarity or something meddled in our affairs regarding the city’s street names. This theory is based upon both the musings of a knowledgeable citizen and a personal experience I am sure is shared by residents of at least three streets. I want to expound upon this a bit, but with the caveat that this issue is primarily opinion and pales in comparison to the more important concerns of a city.
For nearly a decade I have resided on Seventh Street here in King City; I know it is Seventh Street because street signs say so. Some months ago, I sought to order something online that required my resident address and I naturally keyed in Seventh Street. When the “review your information” page came up, it read 7th St., and when I found I was unable to correct it, I canceled the transaction and sent an email to the company explaining I was not sure their product would get sent to the correct address and gave my explanation.
The response came informing it was the U.S. Postal Service that made the change, not the company. When I heard that I realized because I don’t receive much mail and I had never really noticed any change, so I began looking more closely and over time the word was replaced by a numeral on what few pieces of mail I do receive.
I suppose the USPS did this for brevity’s sake, but it seems quite arbitrary to me. That means that all residents and businesses on First, Second, Third and Seventh streets are addressed by a name not matching what the city established decades ago when they chose to use words instead of numbers for those four streets. And they are possibly not the only residents or businesspeople affected by this government action. According to Karen, and Karen knows things, the post office is the source of addresses to new residents of the city, which may be why some long-time residents are now seeing their address changed on maps and correspondence from Mildred Avenue to Mildred Street, the same for San Lorenzo Avenue.
To reiterate from a column I wrote last year, the earliest appearance of the name of King City’s main street through the city that I am aware of is on a map dated in the late 1880s and reads simply Broadway. The word is a contraction of “broad,” of which the thesaurus offers three synonyms when applied to a flat plain: wide, extensive and expansive. For the second word, “way,” the thesaurus offers: road, highway, trail, avenue, boulevard, drive, expressway, freeway, walk, path, road and street. What we see now on maps and street signs and addresses printed and digital is Broadway Street; which is clearly a redundancy as “way” and “street” are synonyms, they mean the same thing.
One could easily change street to way and label Business 101 through town as Broadway Way. It would seem to me the city should ascertain the when and the how such a name change took place, and if no legal reason exists, then all city correspondence and maps should once again use the original Broadway. The city could also encourage businesses along the route and residents to do the same. It would be a costly hassle at first, but in the long run it will be the literate thing to do for all concerned.
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The past week is one I will remember for as long as memory lasts. On Monday of that week, nine days ago, I ventured up to Greenfield and pedaled my trusty steed to the home of a married couple whose roots go deep into Greenfield soil where I intended to reunite with someone I had not seen nor communicated with in 12 years. The separation was a family blow-up over inherited property; an old story. Sibling accusations and recriminations flew back and forth, the property was sold, separation followed and now, over a decade of silence later, my younger brother was staying with friends only a quick bus ride away. I had ciphered out years ago that anger and enmity are tough on the ol’ psyche and that I am agin’ both of ‘em, so the reunion started with a handshake and a hug and we went from there.
And things did not end there, for only three days later Martin, his name is Martin, and I biked out to Roy’s Swiss Sausage Factory where we met up with my daughter and my two youngest grandkids. Leilani and Sam had spent a few weeks in the Monterey Peninsula vacationing with family and Jenny had flown out from Florida to fetch them back and to catch up with some old friends herself. We spent a fun few hours munching on Roy’s sausages while he regaled the kids with stories of how their mother had known the property since she was a little girl and at 18 years old was employed wrapping meat and tying sausages. It was a first meeting for the kids and their great uncle, and a reunion for he and Jenny. It was a nice time. The three are now back in Florida, the kids walking the beaches of the Gulf Coast instead of Carmel Beach.
Life is filled with myriad experiences where both the glad and the sad, if intense enough, become lasting memories and losing friends and acquaintances registers high on the list of memory implant. Last week a man I knew for over six decades laid down to sleep and never woke up; not altogether a bad way to go out. He was one of the few from the old crowd I could chat with occasionally at the place where he was employed a couple days a week. I will miss those times just as I am sure others will miss him. Sleep away, my friend.
Take care. Peace.
