A San Francisco story starring Nurse Vivian

Five-twelve in the morning, every April 18, the mayor, chief of police, fire chief and sheriff all meet with Emperor Norton at Lotta’s Fountain. Commissioned by Lotta Crabtree, the cast-iron font, with lion’s head spigots, became a gathering point for survivors of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire. The siren goes off and I always get teary when Willie Brown, resplendent in a burgundy cashmere coat, launches into Jeanette MacDonald’s “San Francisco,” and I am a part of a tradition that is at least 94 years old. No, not 112. Not too sure on the history here; they didn’t get the memorial thing going for the first decade or so.

But oddly enough, this is the 100th article that I have submitted in a row. I’ll never attain the longevity of Herb Caen, the Cal Ripken of journalism, but still, for me, it’s a thing: roughly 75,000 words of wisdom, or lack thereof.

In comic books, the hundred-issue mark is big. For the 100th Justice League, they teamed up for the very first time with the Seven Soldiers of Victory as well as the Justice Society of America. In the 100th X-Men, Marvel Girl was killed off for the very first time. And Peter Parker grew six arms for Spider-Man No. 100.

But a hundred articles is, well, a hundred. You’d think that I’d have some perspective by now. You’d think I’d know what this column is about.

I know what it’s not about. It’s not about sports, although I have written about soccer, wet socks and kicking that ball into the moonlight. It’s not about fine dining, as we have difficulty making the transition from Bravo’s Pizza to Le P’tit Laurent. Now, I like Le P’tit Laurent, despite the fact that the waiter doesn’t speak French, but the Fisher-Paulsons aren’t high-class. No, we’re really at home in Bravo’s, where even the salad is fattening. It helps that Laike, the guy who tosses the pizza, is a child psychologist in his spare time, so he feeds the boys half pepperoni/half cheese and shrinks their brains at the same time. His father, the owner, claims Laike is the most educated pizza maker on Mission Street.

This column is not about theater, although one Hollywood agent did try to pitch the column as a movie, but we couldn’t agree on whether “The Fisher Paulsons” would be light comedy, film noir or just plain horror.

This column is not about the outer, outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior, which some of my readers consider as imaginary as Oz, but in fact is as sure as Kansas.

This column is not about the perfect family. More often than not, it’s about the imperfect family, four humans with edges and an ever-changing roster of rescue dogs, all of whom have been known to eat doughnuts for dinner.

Some weeks this column is about adoption, some weeks about gay life (not lifestyle — Brian and I are too old to have a lifestyle), some weeks about law enforcement, modern dance and 33 years of marriage. Some weeks it’s about learning challenges and mental illness, and some weeks it’s just having fun.

I try not to think about what the column is about until the day I write it, which is why it reflects whatever crisis occurs on Friday afternoon, whether that be Aidan flushing magnets down the toilet or Zane discovering his first pubic hair.

Somewhere along the line, I find myself quoting my mother, Nurse Vivian, and I realize that deep down, this is what the column is about: an Irish woman from a small town, working swing watch as a nurse, getting up at 4 in the morning to sew a tuxedo for her son’s kindergarten pageant. I have become Nurse Vivian. I’m like her in that I married the man I loved and we got a mortgage for a bungalow that we’ll never pay off, and children whom we love even when they throw rocks through windows and a crippled dog and a dog who needs OCD medication.

And I realize that this love story, the deputy and the dance-hall boy, could only happen in “San Francisco. Open your Golden Gate/ you’ll let no stranger wait outside your door,” because there are no strangers here. In San Francisco, we’re all neighbors, and we all get up an hour before dawn and dress up as either Lillian Coit or a deputy sheriff to sing show tunes in the biggest small town in the world.

This is the 100th article that I have submitted in a row. I’ll never attain the longevity of Herb Caen, the Cal Ripken of journalism, but still, for me, it’s a thing.