The Promenade CallsOne of the nifty things about this place is that it is being cleaned up a bit. For years and years, the earth underneath has supported industry here, and although they were not the cleanest it must be said that they were, in their time, frightfully important. Through draw and whim, all of that is largely gone now, even as the memories linger on. There is much talk and service these days in the world around toward the manner of how we are custodians of the places we live; here, I think, it is a little different. The people here have a good memory of just how bad it was, importance aside, so as the waters run cleaner and the soils are scrubbed, there lurks a consensus that the job should be done well, and it should bloody stay that way.
There are benefits to this. Slowly, the watersides are coming back as a place to work, play, and travel. There are many examples of this, but a recent favorite is a small eatery on a small island, where one can sit outside in the evening air over the water, taking in the lights, the boats, the sounds of the band playing over in the grotto. Being on a trail, there are happy collisions: dancers in pretty summer dresses moving for each other on the patio, rubbing shoulders and exchanging pardons with tired cyclists, dressed reflective. This little corner of the island teems with light and sound, while the rest is strangely quiet at night, the calm primness of the heavy weight of an HOA agreement, stoic and stern against all the forces of nature that must batter them so in the winters.
We do not live like that up here on the hill. This evening I pulled a hundred plants from in amongst the strawberries: feverfew, the stuff that isn't lamb's quarters, one lone locust seeding, other things. Down there were treasures: more strawberries. It was quick work to pull another quart, each ripe, some with red too deep to be true. Some of these I washed and tucked away; the others I washed and put in a box, the bring them up the street and up the stairs to a neighbor, sitting on her porch in the breezes. With gift given, we got to chat a bit: trade histories, tell stories. I am glad to live in a place with porches like that.
It is cool on my own porch, now; sleepy fireflies yawn and glow in the twilight.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Mail accepted for the bears in the basement. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.