When we were kids in San Francisco, my brother Frank and I thought the city was full of adventure just over the hill. So we were going to explore the eastern slope of Potrero Hill, where there was a wonderland full of railroads, timber merchants, dumps, iron foundries, factories, dirt, noise and smoke, full of life and hard work. There was a shipyard at the northern end and Butchertown was the southern border. The eastern border was San Francisco Bay, always full of ships.
It was industrial San Francisco, a great place for the neighborhood kids to explore. Dangerous too, as industry is dangerous. “Get out of here, kids,” the guard shouted. “Go home. Or I call the cops.