The innkeeper's daughter

When I was a girl, every Sunday we would pile in the car with Dad and go get Grammie. When I was little, that meant a trip from the east Bay to San Francisco, where we would pick Grammie up from her suite at the Geary Hotel. In season, we would head to the wharf and pick up crab and fresh sourdough bread for lunch. 

It never occurred odd to me that my Grammie lived in a hotel, but then I didn't really understand the concept that my parents had a life before me. But they did, and as an adult considering retirement options, I now understand her choice to live in a hotel: she'd been doing it most of her life.

When my Grammie, Ruth Neely Thompson, was a girl, her parents owned and operated a hotel in Omaha, Nebraska. Her father had worked for Union Pacific Railroad in many roles, and purchasing a 60-room hotel around 1892--with eighty permanent guests--was a natural extension of this. In 1910 George was listed in the census as a grain dealer--even though he is the first person listed at the Merriam Hotel; his wife Mary is the one actually running the hotel. 

The Merriam Hotel, Omaha, Nebraska

A contemporary description of the Merriam calls it a "First Class Family Hotel" where people could "live comfortably and economically in clean bright rooms and apartments." The rate was $1.50 a night. One of the people who stopped at the hotel was an engineer named Albert Walsh, who had taken a job in Omaha to manage the Gabriel Snubbers Agency (they sold automotive shock absorbers). Ruth was 39, and Albert 46 when they married in 1924.

Shortly after their marriage, Ruth and Albert moved back to his hometown of San Francisco, where they built a few houses for resale. After the birth of their son in 1926, they "settled down" and bought the Biltmore Hotel at 735 Taylor Street in San Francisco. A charming residential hotel at the base of Nob Hill, they struggled to make it work: she managed the kitchen and housekeeping, he dealt with customers and repairs. 

The Biltmore Hotel, San Francisco

Their marital bliss was short-lived: in 1941, Albert died of a massive heart attack, leaving Ruth to run the hotel and raise their 14 year-old son. In a true twist of irony, the onset of WWII and the flurry of shipbuilding and military activity in the Bay Area meant that the hotel turned into a cash cow, and they could live comfortably--and sock away money for the future. 

When it came time for Ruth to retire, she did what came naturally: she sold the hotel (which today remains a residence, renting tiny efficiency studios for usurious prices), and moved into a hotel herself. It wasn't until she broke her hip--during a vacation when she was 72--that she deigned to move into something resembling assisted living. 

But she was always near us, and every Sunday, we would bring her into our home from wherever she was living at the time. And it explained why there were a few towels embroidered with "Biltmore" in our linen closet.