Around the time Esquire magazine declared her "the West Coast's #1 hostess," the Examiner hired her to write its society column. This meant reporting on people who didn't do anything but had enough money and history to make the present superfluous: people like Whitney Warren, a flamboyant man in his seventies whose father had built Grand Central Terminal. Warren presided over a different sort of salon than the Roundtable. When he threw a wedding party for Jackie O's sister and the guest of honor didn't show, he took Mom by the arm, walked into the street, and handed out drinks to the press, saying, "You never could trust those Bouvier girls." This was the kind of thing Dad liked. A lot better than listening to angry/horny Black Panthers and earnest folksingers.

He wasn't alone. Herb Caen had been writing about society, turning bon mots into an art form, for decades. Everybody in San Francisco read his column. (Truly, everyone.) And Dad wanted to be a part of this world, the world Mom and Herb Caen were writing about.

So Dad saw Mom in the paper, did his wooing, did his marrying, joined San Francisco society, had me, built Mom her dream house, gave her everything she asked for, and then left and took it all with him.

From Oh The Glory Of It All by Sean Wilsey. Copyright 2005 Sean Wilsey. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, The Penguin Press.