Marilyn Garry-Mulkeen

“You see? All these addresses for you. I can hardly keep track!”

Ellen Murphy, my great aunt, points to her address book and a series of neatly struck-through street addresses where I’ve lived, reflecting my mobility.

“But me, I’m easy to find! I’ve only moved once in my life,” she said.

It’s true, the G.A.E., as I’ve taken to calling her, has lived in San Francisco’s Richmond district for her whole life--100 years.

Her only move was in 1927, when her Irish-immigrant parents left their home at 23rd and Lake to resettle eight blocks away at 27th and Balboa. She has lived in this home for past the 83 years.

I was visiting her in that house to help catalog gifts she received from the previous day’s birthday bash. She wants to be sure not to miss a single thank-you note.

One gift basket held a trove of her longevity secrets: Cheetos, Christian Brothers Cream Sherry, and playing cards. There was a time when it would have included cigarettes, but she gave up her two-pack-a-day habit 12 years ago.

Her party was a collection of awestruck friends, family and admirers. Among them were an old colleague from her 37 years at Bank of America and friends from Sacred Heart Cathedral Prep’s Alumni Shamrock Club. Among the toasts, letters from the mayor, the board of supervisors, and the San Francisco Giants were read.

One attendee stopped by Ellen’s table to ask her, “So, were there horse and buggies in the Richmond when you were a little girl?”

Ellen, a bit startled, replied, “Why, no, we rode the trolley car!” Her memories of the city are an archive of its history. The only sidewalks in the neighborhood were wooden boardwalks. And, of course, they drove cars. Ellen has been driving since she was just 14. This was a family necessity as she was often tasked with picking up her father from late-night poker games.

She roller-skated, too. That’s how she traveled to and from the bank to pay the family mortgage each month—in cash. She also remembers the distinctive cadences of the now extinct San Francisco accent.

A few days earlier at Cliff House on July 2, her birthday, she summoned the grand glass encasement of Sutro Baths as she recalled swimming there as a child. She told me there was a time when the craggy, barren Seal Rock was actually home to the Bay Area’s sea lions (before they moved to pier 39). She could hear their barking all the way from her home on 27th Avenue.

Looking out over the ocean, she thought back to when her brother, Tom, drowned in the bay. She was just a teenager at the time. “Life is all about taking the bad and the good together,” she said. “And always moving forward.”

As we finished our task before adjourning for the breakfast nook—her “office”—for tea and cake, I asked how she feels now that the party is over, her 100th birthday come and gone.

Great Aunt Ellen took my hand, looked me in the eyes, and exclaimed, “I’m still at the party!"