In case you don’t speak English with a thick Czech accent, I’ll translate for you: We are the lucky ones.
There’s a story behind this, maybe two. At least two. It begins with Julie, my across-the-street neighbor when I lived on Inverness Way. Julie was, as a bar-hopping buddy of hers attested, a man magnet. And a joyous reader, conversationalist and people person. She was also an avid but peripatetic gardener, in constant motion in the garden, digging, chopping, pruning, forever transplanting plants to a new and better location, rarely giving roots a chance to grab hold before she decided they would look better, do better elsewhere. Always in a swirl, always a maelstrom of new places, new ideas, new enthusiasms.
If you really want to understand Julie Tisch, drive up Inverness Way North and stop your car at the second footbridge just past the library. Notice the giant climbing rose, an old-fashioned Cecile Brunner also known as the Sweetheart Rose, that grows up the utility pole. That tells it all. The canes look brown and dormant now, but in the spring and summer they explode into a cascade of hundreds of tiny, spice-fragrant pink roses. After an especially vicious bushwhacking by a county road crew that left splinters and stubble in place of the trees, shrubs and ferns that like to grow on either side of the creek, Julie grabbed her shovel. I saw her run over the bridge, her hair flying electrified, and start digging a hole. Her energy made my help holding the leafless cutting for her to tamp into place seem a pittance. “Barbara, we have to make this place beautiful again,” she said. “To hell with those guys.” So she planted a magnanimous rose, a rogue that thrives for us still.
During most of her sojourn here, Julie was a member of the Inverness Garden Club. Almost always, she confided, the meetings were rather prosaic. However, one day an expert on native plants from Berkeley was invited to speak to the members, who, some 35 years ago, included such local female luminaries as Kay Holbrook, Maidee Moore, Missy Patterson and, of course, Manka, for whom the restaurant was named. Manka and her husband, Milan Prokupek, were Czech refugees, fleeing first the Nazis and then the Communists and finally settling in then-wild West Marin. After Milan died, Manka stayed on, living in the basement quarters of the old hunting lodge, baking her signature apple strudel that lured diners to Sunday brunch from all over the Bay Area.
The native plant specialist shared his slides and explanations with the garden club, all women I imagine, sitting in uncomfortable foldout chairs. I imagine, too, that they listened politely, but with some interest in what the expert told them about the exceptional flora of their home. Julie said he concluded his remarks with something like: “West Marin is fortunate to host a great variety of interesting native plants that I’ve enjoyed observing and photographing.” His final words, according to Julie, were cut abruptly short by lanky Manka, who leaped suddenly out of her chair. Smiling, she gestured with her bony hand, pointing to the guest and proclaiming loudly to the audience, “Yes! Yes! Vee aarh zuh luckee vuhns!” The rest of the members rose in unison to applaud Manka, the speaker, and the wonders of West Marin.
Julie told this story to me and other neighbors multiple times. It charmed us, staying with us over these many years in the form of a toast. Whenever we share a meal or glass of wine, or even a mug of tea, we make sure to look into one another’s eyes. Remember, “We are the lucky ones.”
Barbara Heenan has lived in Inverness for 40 years. A former elementary teacher and educational researcher, she is now jubilada.