Country Roads

 Old Gramma
A two year old is a worrisome creature. If out of sight they have the ability to self destruct quickly. We worry they will fall, trip, eat things they shouldn’t. Often we don’t understand their baby language, their inability to pronounce and utilize words correctly.
Then, as they approach three, major skills are refined. They can actually come down from that ladder you’ve been warning them not to climb. They can run on sturdy legs, skip, retain their balance, bounce like Tigger (Thank you for him, A.A. Milne, and all the other Hundred Acre Wood “Buddy-roos”) Most remarkable of all is their facility to use words properly, often with memorable clarity .
“Your hair is old, Gramma,” said Harper Kiff, soon to be three in March.
“I know.”
“YOU are old, Gramma!”
“Yes, I know that, too.”
What that small person doesn’t yet know is that it is fun to be this old. My memories now go back, particularly during this football playoff season, to the years when a young Joel Kiff, a new Californian from Montana, became involved with coaching football, first at Riordan High School in San Francisco, and then for many years at Marin Catholic in Greenbrae.
“Renee, you’ll be interested to know that the new head coach at Marin Catholic is an ex 49er, Bruno Banducci.  Do you remember him?”
Did I.  Bruno was a lineman and one of the original 49ers, playing with the likes of Hugh McElhenny, Joe Perrry, Frankie Albert and Bob St. Clair. Their coach was Buck Shaw and games were played in Kezar Stadium. Bruno was the captain of the team for years, as he became the last of the originals to retire.  We became friends with Bruno and his wife, Norma, and he had all the patience in the world, answering my many questions about the players I had been watching since my elementary school days.
In later years, when Joel was head coach, the 49ers were playing at Candlestick Park and Joel would get field passes from the sports supply store in San Rafael. Their employees were allowed on the field to photograph the game and if any of them weren’t planning on attending, Joel would get a call that the field passes were available. So, if we each carried a clip board and hung our little cameras around our necks, we were on the field standing along the sidelines. I’m absolutely sure we weren’t fooling anyone but nobody seemed to care.
These were the lean years before Joe Montana and Steve Young. We remained live or die fans throughout those years, carrying transistor radios along on hikes or planning Sundays around game schedules.
One of our family’s greatest gifts occurred when our youngest son, Tom, became an athletic trainer for the Niners during three successive summers at Rocklin.  Joe Montana had just been traded to Kansas City and Steve Young’s star was ascending. Like Bruno, Tom would tell us stories of insider jokes played on rookies at camp and provide insights into the personalities of both coaches and players.  
One of my favorite recollections was when Tom and a trainer named Ray preceded the whole team by a day back to Candlestick from summer camp at Rocklin. Tom told us, “Ray and I entered the vacant 49er locker room. No one had touched it since the last game of the prior season. We walked past the lockers and came to one that said  ‘Joe Montana’. We stared at the sign and stood in silence. Then, Ray sighed and just said, ‘Wow.’”
When the Niners went to the Super Bowl in Miami one of the full time athletic trainer’s chose not to go, as his wife was expecting their child any minute. Tom got a message:
“Can you be on the charter flight to Miami tomorrow? There’s an extra ticket.”
Our other son, Martin, and his wife, Jami, drove up from San Luis Obispo just to watch for Tom at the Super Bowl with us. We have a great photo of George Seifert and Tom, side by side, watching Steve Young pick the competition apart. Tom, of course, was calling the plays. (Joke.)
Joel used to sit on the piano bench when the Niners were playing. He claimed that if he sat anywhere else, they started to lose the game. Just across from the bench is a portrait of Joel which our granddaughter, Erin painted.  
Harper will often come to a halt in front of that picture. She gazes at the face of her grandfather.
“Grampa,” she wistfully observes.
And then, a moment later, “Gone.”
I watch the curly blond haired little girl as she resumes her bouncing into the living room and I think,
“Wow.”
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.