City living involves carving out paths—the well-worn routes we travel each day. Whether on foot, behind the wheel, or in the seat of a city bus, we come to anticipate the landmarks of daily life. The construction on the house on the corner; the For Sale sign that becomes Sold; the usual panhandlers and Street Sheet vendors; the jacaranda tree in summer bloom.

Five years ago, my landmarks changed as I moved into a different part of the city—a more urban area, where my bedroom window looked out on the stop for the 27 bus and from which I heard the ding-ding of cable cars, the crash of bottles from the Chinese restaurant next door, and the dong of the bells from the tower of Grace Cathedral.

Now, when I drive home from the grocery store, I take a street I’d traveled only once or twice before. Larkin Street heads up from City Hall through the Tenderloin and up Nob Hill, then over to Russian Hill and posh houses and views, then down again to end a block from Ghirardelli Square. On the corner of Larkin and Turk, as the Civic Center melds into the Tenderloin, stands a tire shop.

When I needed new tires, some ten years ago, I headed there. “Kahn and Keville,” my father had told me, with the know-how of a local. (My mother sounded similarly authoritative when recommending chair caners, glaziers, or florists—should I ever need such services.) Kahn and Keville sold me a set of Michelins, and I don’t remember much from the transaction other than the location. I’d never been to Turk and Larkin before, and I doubted I’d ever pass again.

Then I moved, and now I drive past at least twice a week. It’s not the most direct route home, but it is the most interesting.

The tire shop, you see, does more than sell tires. In business in San Francisco since 1912, Kahn and Keville features a large marquee on the corner of its lot. A few days ago, not long after the computer glitch that caused the Dow Jones to plunge 1000 points, the marquee displayed the following:

Warren Buffett uses his personal computer only to play bridge.

Some six months ago:

We built this store in 1934 and prospered.

And, in June 2009:

The Great Depression lasted only 43 months. The ensuing downturn another seven years.

From these signs, I’ve developed an idea of the personality—or at least the politics—behind them. No-nonsense; common-sense; individualistic. I began to imagine a man of a certain age and political persuasion, a man not unlike my gruff uncle—or, for that matter, my father. A man who’d seen a lot and lived—not to jawbone about it but to offer a pithy statement that cut to the heart of the matter.

There’s always free cheese in a mousetrap.

And yet, unlike my gruff uncle or father, this marquee has also, in the years of my driving past, offered up Ozzy Osbourne and J.D. Salinger. To quote: Of all the things I’ve ever lost, it’s my mind I miss the most (Osbourne) and, after his death this past January, Most stuff that is genuine is better left unsaid (Salinger).

That latter, I puzzled over the whole rest of the drive and for days to follow. On one hand, it made sense, given that the exposer of the phony had said it to a friend. On the other hand, what about genuine love? Should we never tell our beloved how we feel? Then I thought about what it means to muse over the words seen outside a tire shop.

I did a little Googling. Hugh Keville, one of the founders of the shop, served in World War I and witnessed the Meuse-Argonne Allied offensive in Germany. During the war, he collected statements in a notebook and, upon return home, on a chalkboard in the tire shop. In 1959, the shop started posting these sayings—both topical and timeless—on the marquee.

Perhaps in homage to Keville’s experience at the horror of the War to End All Wars, three years ago the marquee announced that Every Thursday at noon, you’ve had Friends on the next corner. Go Say Hello—a reference to the Quaker vigil for peace outside the Federal Building, held every Thursday noon rain or shine since the U.S. began bombing Afghanistan.

My father died five years ago. He was a man of often exasperating contradictions. “I’ve been thinking,” he’d announce, and I knew that what would follow might offer advice 180 degrees from his previous counsel. In a debate, he switched sides, played devil’s advocate. He could be frustratingly hard to pin down. He’d “loan” me a twenty when I was a teenager going to the movies and never expect to see it back. And yet, in fourth grade, when my report card showed a C in math, he told me, in a tone I’ll never forget, “There’s no excuse for carelessness.” He then got up every morning at five to help me with my math homework. A successful attorney with a firm standard of right and wrong, he couldn’t remember details unless they were numbers. He never, ever, balanced his checkbook. And yet, when he died unexpectedly, I—his next-of-kin—found everything in impeccable order.

My father and I never talked about the marquee at Kahn & Keville, but I’m sure he knew of it. I can imagine him quoting it, a twinkle in his blue eye—much as he loved telling the story of running into Warren Buffett at the eye doctor’s one day, Buffett looking “like an ordinary Joe.”

I miss you, Dad. And I’m grateful to find you in unexpected places.