I am the last person to know anything meaningful about construction—particularly the cement and/or concrete traipsed upon everyday. While I walked along Hamilton Street, between Madison and Monroe, in San Diego’s North Park neighborhood, a year etched in the sidewalk stopped my motion. Could that rectangle of pavement really have been placed in December 1921? Think about the century of feet pounding by.
As I stepped back, a gentleman and his basset hound came out of a residence. We spoke briefly, with my question asked, and he expressed how the neighborhood came to be over a series of waves, so to speak. He is correct.
