Longtime San Francisco Chronicle columnist Carl Nolte stands for a portrait in the newsroom in San Francisco. Nolte is retiring after 65 years at the Chronicle at age 92.
Jessica Christian/S.F. Chronicle
Columnist Carl Nolte has worked at the San Francisco Chronicle since 1961 as a copy editor, reporter, editor, war correspondent and, most recently, columnist. Nolte is retiring at age 92.
Jessica Christian/S.F. Chronicle
If you’ve read the San Francisco Chronicle in the last half-century, you’re likely familiar with the name Carl Nolte.
The San Francisco native joined the Chronicle as a copy editor on June 13, 1961, and never left, working as a reporter, editor, war correspondent and, most recently, columnist. Along the way, he traced the Gold Rush from the midwest to California, embedded with a U.S. Army platoon in Iraq and sailed through the Panama Canal on a restored World War II ship. He flew with the Blue Angels. He wrote Herb Caen’s obituary.
For the past 17 years he has written the weekly Native Son column, documenting his hometown’s constant evolution and introducing readers to original Bay Area personalities. Now, at 92 years old, he’s publishing his final column today, as he leaves the Chronicle 65 years to the day after arriving.
Before he hung up his notebook, we asked Carl to share a few of his favorite columns. He sent over four stories and told us the columns he liked best were “not about famous people or famous events in the city — not strikes, wars, riots, elections — but about kind of ordinary people who live in the city … supporting actors to the kind of pageant that I think San Francisco is.”
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“Sad farewell to musician Bruce Sherman” (Sep 6, 2009)
Most people in San Francisco have probably never heard of Bruce Sherman, who played the concertina and sang very old tunes around the city. Sherman was a quiet and gentle man who loved to talk, but not about himself.
He was one of those people who are part of the background but reflect the style of the city, like the people who sell flowers at the sidewalk stands or a neighbor you see on the street, someone you know and don’t know at the same time.
I knew Sherman a little. I’d see him around town, at book events, where we’d have an occasional glass of wine together. If there was a nautical event, he’d be there playing — the accordion sometimes, sometimes the concertina. He was part of the city. Now he’s gone.
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“Geography John: Muni man in a million” (March 4, 2013)
Once upon a time, long ago and not far away, a friend and I were sitting in a bar near Washington Square. We were chatting up some likely young women, trying to appear urbane and charming, without much success.
Suddenly, a fiercely bearded man in a Muni bus driver’s uniform appeared in the door. “Anybody want to go to Telegraph Hill?” he called out in a loud voice. “Telegraph Hill? Anybody?” He paused. “If there are no takers, I believe I’ll have a cup of coffee,” he said.
The bartender served something that looked like coffee, but smelled stronger. “Who the hell is that?” I inquired. “That’s Geography John,” the bartender said. “He drives the 39-Coit bus.” He pointed. Sure enough, in the bus zone just outside was a very small Muni bus, its engine running.
“Bill Bradley dies — ‘The Rose Man’ in S.F.” (Dec 20, 2013)
Bill Bradley was one of those people who define a city, like supporting actors in a stage play. Everyone knows them and no one knows them.
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Mr. Bradley was “the Rose Man.” For more than 30 years he sold roses out of a bucket at restaurants and bars in San Francisco’s North Beach and Financial District.
He was born in San Francisco, lived in a single room and died in a local hospital on Dec. 8. He was 59.
Millie Gardiner, 93, pictured in the cafeteria at the Laguna Honda Rehabilitation Center in 2016. She sold Polaroids in bars and restaurants and was the subject of one of Carl Nolte’s columns.
Leah Millis/The Chronicle
“Old friends come to rescue of 93-year-old North Beach mainstay” (Aug 20, 2016)
In her prime, Millie was a character out of one of those San Francisco stories. She was a little old lady, walking with a cane, wearing a long dress down to her shoes, a jaunty black hat on her head. She’d come up to couples in a bar or a restaurant and smile. She had a face all scrunched up like a baked apple, eyes as dark as coal.
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“Are you behaving yourself?” she’d say. “I’ll take your picture.”
She had an ancient Polaroid camera with a flash, and she’d stand there while the picture developed, smiling her old lady smile. “Just a minute,” she’d say, “Hang on.” In a minute or two, she’d present the Polaroid with a flourish. “That will be five bucks,” she’d say.