Monthly Archives: January 2020

AS THE CROW FLIES

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I woke up abruptly this morning. I heard something tapping on my bedroom window. I tried to ignore it for quite a while. I put my pillow over my head. I plug my ears. The noise is relentless. My bedroom is on the second floor. So really, who could be knocking on the window? A window washer, Superman, a drone. Oh no, perhaps it’s a second-story man.  All highly unlikely suspects. I toss and turn and try to fall back to sleep. No luck, I’m wide awake. And once that happens, I have to get up. I  walk over to the window and throw open the curtains.

CROW by Capri 23auto

I’m startled. I see a Crow with bright, black eyes staring back at me. He begins tapping on the window. Tap,   tap. tap. I tap back. Tap.  Tap.Tap. He’s hanging on the screen.  “Hello,” I yell loudly. He opens his beak wide. I believe he might be saying hello back to me.  I smile. He opens his beak again. And then tap.  Tap, tap. What does it mean? He flies away and lands in the Dogwood Tree that I planted next to my Koi pond last year. It’s just now beginning to bloom—my favorite tree.

I’ve always been very fond of birds. I think you might call it some kind of harmless obsession. I’m a painter, and almost all my paintings have birds in them.  I spend a great deal of time in my garden, planting flowers that will attract birds and butterflies, and bees. I have nesting boxes and bird feeders all over my yard.

But all that is beside the point.  I have enjoyed my momentary interaction with the Crow. Since I’m awake, I decide to get an early start on my day. I dress and go into my studio and continue working on my latest painting. Several pleasant hours pass by. I notice a growling noise. It’s my stomach; I realize that it’s nearly lunchtime, and I haven’t eaten anything yet today.

I rummage around inside my frig and decide to heat some vegetable soup. That I made yesterday, it’s a gorgeous sunny, Spring day I choose to go outside to my screened porch and eat my soup and crackers. I take a deep breath. The air is sweet and fresh.

I so enjoy watching the birds fly from one feeder to another. There are six Cardinals at the feeder next to the back fence. I notice that a Blue Bird and her mate are building a nest inside the Blue Birdhouse. I smile. What could be better than this? I look forward to seeing them raise a family there. Spring, by far, is my favorite season. It inspires hope when the earth wakes up from its wintery sleep. It inspires hope as all new beginnings do.

As I sit on my porch, I think, what could be better than this? I finish my soup, and I must admit it’s delicious. Nothing tastes better than something made from vegetables that you grow in your garden from seed. As I’m about to go back to the house, I notice a crow in the cul-de-sac. He’s standing in the middle and is bowing over and over again. Four crows are walking in a circle around him. It looks so absurd that I burst out laughing. I wonder if he’s the same crow that was taping on my window early this morning. Perhaps he’s the King of the Crows.

The next morning, I’m still fast asleep. And I hear a tapping noise once again. I groan and look over at the clock. It’s 6:45 am. I pull my pillow over my head so as not to hear the tapping. It’s relentless. I can still hear it. Tap.  Tap.Tap. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and walk over to the window. And Pull the curtains aside. And behold, it’s the King of Crows. Once again, tapping on my bedroom window. As I study him, I realize that he isn’t the uniform black that I first observed. He had a light violet on his torso. And his wings were a fantastic, greenish-blue.

“What? What are you trying to tell me? Please stop waking me up so early in the morning. I realize he can’t hear me through the closed window. I open it up slightly. He begins to caw loudly. I still don’t understand what he wants me to do. I decide to do some research on Crows that will enlighten me on this behavior.

The next morning, I wake up bright and early. I wonder if the Crow will tap at my window. I’m somewhat disappointed when he doesn’t arrive. I get up and walk over to the window. I pull one of the curtains back just far enough to the lookout. My crow is hanging on the window screen.  He looks directly at me. I see his beak opening up wide. I know he‘s cawing at me. I decide that this is just his way of saying Good morning or hello. I laugh. He opens his beak again.

He flies away, and I  watch as he lands one again in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Four crows fly down from the forty-foot evergreens on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac. They form a circle around him once again, and he bows as they circle him. I open the window, and I hear him cawing. The four other crows join in. It’s a mysterious ceremony. I feel a compulsion to join in. I know it’s absurd, but still, I want to do it. Perhaps I was a crow in a former life? Then I say out loud, “former life, I’m losing it. I’m going off the deep end.” I’m spending too much time alone in my studio. I need to get out more. See more people, join in. Go to the gym. Something.

I end up going to the library and researching Crows. I know I can find information about them online. But then I wouldn’t be getting out of the house, would I? And I would also miss going to my favorite place in the world, the library. Yes, that’s right, the library. I have memories of a lifetime of experiences within the walls and between the stacks at my childhood library, the library in my college, and of course, my local library. The bastion of knowledge, a literary jackpot. The somewhat cheesy smell and touch of old books, ink on paper. The oily residue of a hundred hands.  Old books have their history. How many people have touched the pages, digested the words? The possibilities are endless. For me, it is a sanctuary, a respite. Yes, even nirvana.

I decided I should approach the research librarian. I’m somewhat ambivalent though I have a fierce love of the library and its contents. I fear the librarians. It has been my experience that librarians are not social creatures. I believe they each chose this calling because they don’t care about interacting with their fellow human beings. And that is precisely why they chose this line of work. Because they thought mistakenly, they would spend their entire working lives with their beloved books. But alas no. They soon realized that they would be interacting with people. Beings capable of disrupting the quiet. They might become noisy, even boisterous at times. And god forbid dogearing the pages and most hideous of all desecrating these sacred volumes by marking the pages.

I stealthily approach the research librarians’ desk. She has her head down. Several ancient-looking tomes are open on her desk, and she’s running her index finger along the line of printed words. She is scrupulously not to touch the page lest oil from her hands’ mar, its precious surface. I consider telling her to use finger cots, but I imagine she might slap me for making such a crude suggestion. As if I might be suggesting she use a condom.

“Excuse me,” I say in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Excuse me.” No response. I clear my throat several times. Nothing. I say in a somewhat louder tone, “Hello, madam, could you please help me. I need some assistance. I wish there were a bell on the desk. But no such luck. I imagine she may stroke out if I did ring a bell. She slowly raises her head. She gives me a cold, dead stare. Her eyes are pinned on me. I fear she might make a sudden move and attack me in some way.

“Yes.”

I smile, my very friendliest smile. One that I reserve for dogs and babies. A smile that rarely fails to ingratiate me. It does not affect her. She continues to stare. It’s unnerving; I decide just to jump in and spill it all out at once. “Could you please help me find information about the crows that live in this section of the country?”

She begins by typing rapidly on her computer. I wait patiently. After no more than a minute, she says, ”Corvus brachyrhynchoz, American Crow. Common to this area.”

“Can you tell me if you have any books in this library that I can take home to study?”

She accesses her computer once again. “No, not here. But I can put in a request from one of our other branches. If you give me your library card and contact information, I will notify you when we receive it at this branch. She slides me a form to fill out. I quickly do so. Then, she writes down some numbers on another paper and says abruptly, “here, go to the stacks listed on this paper, and you will find several books on birds that inhabit North Carolina. They’re reference books, but you can copy pages that interest you.”

She puts her head down; I’m dismissed. And I have disappeared from her conscious thoughts. I count my lucky stars. I come away from this interaction relatively unscathed. I look at the call numbers for the books. And I’m off to the reference section of the library. I notice that my teeth are clenched and my shoulders hunched. I take several breaths and try to relax. At one time, I had considered becoming a librarian. I can see that I would then have become a clone to this woman. And I don’t know for sure if that would have been a good thing or a bad thing.

I find the books noted on the paper and sit down for several hours immersed in my current obsession, the Crow. It’s fascinating.  I wonder where this experience will take me. I could study this particular species and be done with it. Or perhaps once I read about it, I’ll then want to observe the “Crows” behavior. Or maybe I’ll take it further. There’s no knowing at this point. But I have been down this path before. And have only regretted it once before. Only time will tell.

After spending numerous hours reading about crows, I realize that this will become a long-term project. OK, some may call it an obsession. But I say tomato, tomato—same difference. I would spend the evening creating my strategy, and tomorrow I would begin.

I set my alarm for sunrise. Last night I studied the research that I gleaned from my visit to the library. It was enlightening, to say the least. Most importantly, I have discovered that Crows are highly intelligent creatures. More intelligent than Parrots. They are capable of making and using rudimentary tools in their pursuit of food. They have phenomenal memories. They can distinguish and remember a human face over a long period even if they haven’t seen that face for several years.

They are known to ban together to mob predators and even humans that they consider a threat for some reason.  They mate for life, and both the male and female and older siblings care for the baby birds communally. And what I found most profound of all they mourn the death of a fellow crow, even if it was formerly unknown to them. And it’s at that point I know I have entered the first stage of a full-fledged obsession.  I welcome it. I’m never more complete than when I’m immersed, whether it be a new painting, creating a new garden, or solving a mystery.

Last night before I retired to my bed, I gathered different types of food that I believe would entice my new avian friend to stay longer at my window. And that I might become better acquainted with him. I had read during my research at the library that Crows are omnivorous. And they will eat whatever food is readily available. That could include anything from vegetables to insects. Or even dead animals and garbage.

I collect an assortment of food, from hard-boiled eggs to a spider I captured in my basement. I carefully placed it in a small cup that I attached to the siding underneath my bedroom window.

The following morning, I hear a scratching sound followed by cawing outside of my window. I carefully peek through the curtain. I see my crow studying the food cache I left for him. He’s eyeing it thoroughly, and then he reaches down and gingerly picks up a grape and eats it.  He looks directly at my face and caws. He picks up the piece of boiled egg and flies off with it in his beak. I watch him until he’s no longer in my field of vision.

Later that afternoon, I peek out the window. And I realize that all the food I left is gone. And in its’ place is something shiny. I shove the window open and pick it up. A small cut stone.  I realize it is an emerald. It looks familiar, somehow. I stare at it. And then it comes to me. It looks just like the emerald that I lost last Spring when I was working in the kitchen garden. I rush over to my jewelry box and pick up the ring that’s missing its stone. I remember how upset I was when I lost it. I looked everywhere for it. It was a birthday gift from my mother on my sixteenth birthday.

My mother passed away last summer. I put the stone in the setting. It fits perfectly. A wave of emotion fills me up, and tears flow out of my eyes. I feel like I have regained a little piece of my mother again. I can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. I think that King Crow and I were somehow ordained to meet. And I’m somehow meant to help him someway in the future.

About a week later, I enjoyed a bowl of hot oatmeal on my back porch when I heard a loud ruckus. I realized that it’s a murder of Crows cawing at a hawk swooping down on a fledgling that’s eating seeds on the ground underneath my birdfeeder. I stand up and pick up my binoculars and look at the bird on the ground. It’s a fledgling crow.

I’m finally able to drive off the Hawk by walking around the back yard banging a pot and pan together. After I go back onto the porch, I sit and watch as four crows come down and surround the fledgling. They walk all around him bobbing their heads. I know he will be safe for now. But I have to come up with a plan to keep the hawk out of my pond and away from the crows.

I decided to create a scarecrow. I‘m going to dress the scarecrow in my old gardening clothes. I know the Crows recognize me and aren’t going to be scared away by a scarecrow, but the hawk would be. My Koi will be safe, and so will King Crow and the fledglings. I go into the garage and begin to build the frame for my scarecrow and put my old clothes on it. I have to admit it looks like a decent facsimile of me. I even put my old straw gardening hat on its head.

As I place the scarecrow near the back fence, I notice that at least a hundred crows are roosting in the trees in the woods behind my fence. They are cawing to one another. Then one crow flies down and lands on the ground about five feet away from the bird feeder. He watches me with great interest. He doesn’t leave until I start walking away. I look at him and bow, and he bows back. I‘m certain it’s King Crow. He caws loudly, and I caw at him. I walk back to my house and then turn and wave at the crows.  He brought the ring back to me, and I gave him and his fellow crows a haven. It’s. No one will ever convince me of anything different.

YOU GOT IT MADE IN THE SHADE IN THE SUMMER

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I wake up covered in sweat. My bedroom is unbearably hot. But that isn’t why I woke up early. I hear a buzzing in my ear. I always cover my head with the sheet at night to keep the biting mosquitoes at bay. But that doesn’t stop the annoying and relentless buzzing.

Before we go to bed for the night, my family searches out all the mosquitoes in the house and massacre as many as we can find. New Jersey used to be a swamp. The swamp is gone, but the mosquitoes remain. It’s the only thing I detest about summer — the mosquitoes. I make a promise to myself that tonight, I will not leave a single mosquito alive. I make this promise every night, but tonight I will not fail.

Downtown Maple Shade, NJ 1960s

The 5& 10 Store Main Street, Maple Shade, NJ

I hear my mother and father talking in the kitchen. I get out of bed and put my ear on the heater vent. “Mom, what do you need from the Acme for dinner tonight?”

Yes, my dad calls my mother, Mom. I didn’t think it was weird when I was young until I visited my friend’s houses and found out my friend’s fathers don’t call their wives, mom. But I guess every family is somewhat different from every other one.

Boy, I could tell some stories about what goes on in their houses. For instance, at my best friend’s house, her father talks to Joanie and me from the bathroom while he is sitting on the toilet. I’m not kidding. If I ever to talk to my father in the bathroom, he would murder me for sure. I never told my mother about that, or she wouldn’t let me go over there anymore. It’s practically my second home. One day Joanie’s father said, “Don’t you have a home of your own Susie?” I just laughed and asked if I could have another donut. Joanie’s dad works in the meat department at the Acme and brings home lots of goodies. He is kind of grouchy like my father, but I’m used to that.

And then there is my friend Darlene; boy, is she lucky. Darlene’s family keep all the snacks in the oven. Her mother only cooks on the stove top. And her dining room table is covered in piles of unopened mail. It always looks the same. So, I’m not sure where they eat their meals. Her mother and father were born in Poland. Anyway, they have every kind of cookie you can imagine: even Oreo Cookies, my absolute favorite. I twist the cookies apart, eat all the delicious icing, and then dip them into ice-cold milk. Once a week, Darlene’s mother gives Darlene money to buy fresh bread at the Maple Shade Bakery downtown. And we eat half of it on the walk home. Her mother never says a word about it. And best of all, Darlene’s Dad gets a big can of Charlie Chips delivered to their house once a month, along with lots of beer. And they are so good (the chips not the beer) you wouldn’t believe it. They melt in your mouth, crisp and salty.

Darlene’s mother is a tailor at the coat factory in Maple Shade. She makes all of Darlene’s clothes. Darlene’s closet is almost as big as my bedroom, and she has a queen size bed with a fluffy comforter on it. We sit on her bed and tell each other our secrets and read comic books.

Summer is my favorite time of the year. I’m free to go wherever I want as long as I come home on time for lunch and dinner. My parents don’t ask what I have been doing. And after I got my own bike, I was able to go much further, including the Strawbridge Lake in Moorestown with my best friend, Joanie. We watch the ducks swimming around the lake and walk across the dam and watch people fishing. In the winter, we go ice skating on Strawbridge Lake and drink hot chocolate that we bring with us in thermoses. Strawbridge Lake is my favorite place on earth. I always look at the big houses that are across the street and wished we lived there. But I know I would miss my friends too much. And I’m happy where I live now in Maple Shade.

During the hot summer months, all the kids in the neighborhood go swimming in my next-door neighbor Jackie’s above ground swimming pool. Just last week, I, Joan, Elaine, Darlene, and a couple of other kids from down the street went swimming. We had such fun. Unfortunately, Jackie’s mother forgot to put chlorine in the pool this year, and we all got impetigo. This is some kind of skin infection on your skin and is very itchy, and you get scabs everywhere. We all had to go to the doctors for antibiotics. My mother said, “Susie, that’s the end of going swimming at their pool.” I cried and whined, but that was the end of swimming in their pool.

On Saturdays, there is a matinee at the Roxy Movie Theater on Main Street. All the kids in town go. It costs a quarter. My mother makes me Lebanon Bologna sandwiches with cheese on white bread to eat while I’m watching the movie. There’s a stage in front of the movie screen.   Before the movie, a woman plays the organ that is on the left side of the stage. And sometimes they give away collector dishes to kids whose ticket stubs are picked. So far, I haven’t won, but I know I will. And I ‘ll give the plate to my mother. When the movie is about to start, they pull back the velvet curtains to reveal the movie screen. Then turn off all the lights in the theater, and loud music is played. All the kids start clapping and stamping their feet. It’s exciting.

Last week we saw Village of the Damned. It was the scariest movie I ever saw. It was about these psychic children that were all born at the same time in one small town under mysterious conditions, and they were a threat to their town. They were all blond and had blue eyes and were very smart. When my friends and I were leaving the movie theater, all the kids started pointing at me because I have blond hair and blue eyes like evil children.

Sometimes my friends and I catch the bus in front of the police station, and we go to the Riverside Roller Rink. My friends and I go roller skating for fifty cents for the whole day. It’s great fun. First, we have to rent our roller skates if we don’t have any of our own. Sometimes they don’t fit too well, so I always bring an extra pair of socks. Otherwise, you end up with blisters on your feet. I try not to think about all the people that wore these skates before me. Of course, I spend most of my time getting up after falling and crashing into the wall. I’m usually bruised from head to toe by the end of the day. But I love it. By the time my bruises heal up, it’s time to go again.

But by far, my favorite thing to do in the summer is walking down to the library. It’s attached to the Maple Shade police station. I love to read. I spend hours in there looking at all the books, and I take out as many books as I’m allowed. I even have my own library card. It’s a blue card, and it has a little metal plate on it with the MA236 embossed on it. In two weeks, I go back to the library with all the books that I read and get six more. The librarians all know my name since I go there all the time and say, “well, if it isn’t Miss Carberry again. How are you today?” I give them a big smile, and I’m off to find some more treasures to read. Heaven.

Rosie

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Camille packs the last of her belongings for her trip to North Carolina in the back of her fourteen-year-old Chevy van. She holds the checklist in her hand and checks off each item. The essential possessions in the van are the containers that will hold the cuttings that she hopes to collect during her journey.

Every winter evening, Camille sits in her favorite chair next to the crackling fireplace and plans her journey to a different part of the country. She hopes to visit every part of the United States before she passes from this life. This year’s destination is Wilson, North Carolina. She’ll be

Oakwood Cemetary by Robert Culver

traveling from her farm, outside of the little town of Dublin, Pennsylvania. She mapped out the stops along the route and programmed them into her GPS.

Before she pulls herself up into the front seat, she opens her purse and checks the contents, wallet, cell phone, checkbook, brush, and small sketchbook and drawing materials.

Her part-time employee Karen Nelson is going to be looking after the farm and house while she’s away. Karen is a  reliable woman. Camille knows she’ll take care of her property as if it’s her own. Karen has worked for Camille for almost ten years. Karen’s the closest thing to a friend that she has in her life.

Camille’s grandmother passed away fourteen years ago at eighty-five. Camille has lived a solitary life since then, but she never feels lonely. Time passes quickly for her. She enjoys working in the greenhouse and tending her garden. Her garden, she loves every inch of it as if it’s her child. The child she conceived and for which she has enduring love.

The garden is just beginning to shake off its wintery sleep. Soon the roses will sprout their leafy buds and begin their transition from thorny stems to glorious, fragrant, and delicate blooms. As she backs out of the driveway, she thinks about the journey ahead and the treasures she hopes to find.

As she climbs up into the van, she places her purse on the passenger seat and locks the doors. She gazes at her home and the surrounding property, takes a deep breath, and swallows hard. She feels tears welling up in her eyes. Although she looks forward to her journey each year, it’s hard for her to leave her roses and the only home she has ever known.

Last year Camille roamed her home state of Pennsylvania and visited all the abandoned cemeteries she knew about. She talked to the old folks in the neighboring towns. They reached back into their memories and told her about cemeteries they recalled from their long-ago childhoods. They related the tradition of visiting the graves of family members each year.

The whole family would pack a picnic lunch and head out to the cemetery for the day. They would remove debris and weeds and plant roses for their deceased loved ones. They would talk about the good times and how they missed them, knowing that they would all reunite once again in the hereafter.

Camille has come to love the visits to the cemeteries. Although most of the graveyards she visits have fallen into ruin, she feels almost a palatable sense that she’s taking a step back in time. She feels a connection to the past.

On her trip last year to Lycoming, Pennsylvania, she found that the woods had completely engulfed the cemetery. The headstones were worn down by years of rain, snow, and wind. The words were impossible to decipher. Lycoming had once been a booming coal-mining town, but is now deserted and has all but returned to wilderness.

Amongst the sixty-foot trees, she found a Cynthia Brook Rose. It had grown and flourished into a massive shrub despite being uncared for by any human hand. It had survived decades of harsh winters and summers that offered little respite from the high heat and little rain.

Camille took many cuttings and brought them home and had propagated over one hundred plants. The cabbagey flower was breathtaking, with warm orangey-yellow blooms. Its perfume had a sweet tea fragrance.

Camille begins her journey by the highway but will be traveling most of her way by dirt roads, studded with potholes. The early spring rains may make some of the country roads impassable. Her Chevy is old but sturdy and has spent most of its fourteen years on her own farm’s muddy and pitted dirt roads.

Her first stop is outside of Baltimore, Maryland, in Arbutus, an abandoned cemetery on Benson Avenue. It’s believed to contain the remains of the influenza victims of 1917. There was a long history of reported hauntings. Of course, this didn’t deter Camille from the past, and the present is all one to her.

Camille passes Baltimore and continues South along I 95, then takes the exit to Arbutus. As she enters the town limits, she stops at a one-pump gas station to get directions to the cemetery. She sees an elderly man sitting in a rusty metal chair, smoking a pipe. She walks over to him and quietly asks, “Sir, can you direct me to the Benson Avenue Cemetery?”

The old man looks at her with milky eyes and clears his throat as if he hasn’t spoken in many years. “Yes, I can tell you how to get there, but there isn’t anything there for you to see. It was overgrown when I was a boy. As you can see, that was a lifetime ago.

“I would appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Well, follow Herbert Run River south for about a quarter of a mile. On the left of the river, you’ll see rusted gates and a fence surrounding an overgrown field. Beyond those gates is the cemetery, what little is left of it. Do you have kin resting there?”

“Kin, no kin. I’m searching for vintage roses.  That’s what I do. I save roses. Thank you for your help. Have a good day, sir.”

“Did you say roses? Well, good luck with that, I would be surprised if you found anything living in that godforsaken place.”

Camille returns to her van, buckles up her seatbelt, and pulls out of the gas station. She glances at the rearview mirror and sees the old man is back to puffing on his pipe. He’s staring into space. It almost feels to her as if the conversation with the old man had never taken place. She wonders how many years he has been sitting in that decrepit chair smoking on his pipe.

She follows his directions, and soon, she sees the rusted gates the old man described. She pulls over and parks next to the fence. As she steps out of the van, she realizes that the ground beneath her feet is soggy.

She walks up to the gate and peers beyond it. The field is a mud hole covered in dead vines and debris. She walks around to the back of the van and opens the doors. Then she reaches in and grabs her boots. She sits on the back bumper, takes off her shoes one at a time, and puts on her boots.

The appearance of the cemetery doesn’t deter or surprise her. She has visited many abandoned cemeteries over the years. She steps down onto the road, walks over to the gates, and pushes them open with some difficulty. Only the top hinges are attached to the gate. She has to lift the gate and shove it back. She looks around and sees some headstones lying on the ground and walks towards them.

The ground is strewn with broken beer bottles and trash of every kind. There’s graffiti on the headstones. Camille steps around the broken glass. Most of the trees within the cemetery look as if they have been dead for a very long time, not unlike the occupants. She learned from her experience that cemeteries this old are abandoned over time because all of the family members of those interred here have long since passed away as well.

Camille walks around looking for any sign of life, and there in the far corner, she spies a possible rose bush. She walks up to it, and sure enough, it is a rose shrub.

She examines the leaf buds and stems; the shrub is nearly five feet high and four feet wide. It’s difficult to identify accurately before it completes leafing out. But she believes that standing before her is Rosa Damascene Bifera, a rose whose ancestors date back to the early Romans.

Her heart is pounding hard as she treks back to the van to retrieve her tools and containers. She’s looked for this rose for years. It’s almost unbelievable that she has found it in this dank and deserted cemetery. But she has. As she starts taking her cuttings, her mind is going a million miles an hour. It’s quite a coup to obtain such a rare find.

She imagines how it will grace her gardens. She knows that her like-minded customers will be as enthralled as she is at this very moment. She returns to the van and replaces the container and tools in the back of the van.

She takes out her drawing pencils and pad and begins a sketch of the Damask Rose. It is a multi-stemmed rose with up to ten blooms. It has been known to bloom more than once a season. Its strong fragrance is entrancing. The rose itself is light to deep pink. She can barely contain her excitement. She feels it’s a celebratory moment. Camille decides to stay in the town overnight and have dinner. She begins a sketch of the rusted gates and fence; she snaps close the sketchbook when she is finished and heads toward the town.

She finds a local diner called Twenty-Two Burgers, and since it is the only restaurant in sight, she pulls into the parking lot. As she enters the restaurant, all eyes turn toward her; a waitress calls out, “Sit wherever you like.”

Camille chooses a booth in the back. She wants to be alone with her thoughts. The waitress appears next to the table in a stained pink polyester uniform circa 1950. The name embroidered on her uniform is Charlene. She hands Camille the menu and says, “Do you need a few minutes?”

Camille glances at the menu and says,” Yes, Charlene, I’ll have the house burger with a side salad and French and a cup of Earl Gray if you have any.”

“Gottcha, only my name isn’t Charlene. It was some waitress before me. My name is Dawn. Be back shortly with your meal.”

In ten minutes, Dawn returns with a burger and fries, salad, and a cup of Earl Grey. “Here you go, honey. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Camille enjoys her dinner, entertained by her happy thoughts. Dawn comes back to the table, “Would you like a nice apple pie to top off that dinner, miss?”

“Yes, I believe I would, Dawn; thank you. Can you recommend a place to stay overnight in the area?”

“Well, you can get back on the interstate and stay at the Red Top Inn. It’s about two miles south of here, or there’s a little motel called Moe’s just down the road. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm and dry and quiet this time of year.

“Thanks, I believe I’ll do just that.”

Moe’s turned out to be as advertised dry and quiet. Camille writes in her journal for a while, then falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until seven AM. She gets a quick shower and is on her way to her next destination Sandston, Virginia.

She stops at Dupery’s Feed Store about five miles outside of Richmond to ask for directions to the cemetery. She notices a young man lifting fifty-pound sacks of seed as if they’re large sacks of feathers. He carries them over his shoulder from the back of a large flatbed truck into the Feed Store.

“Excuse me, do you know where Dry Bridge Court Cemetery is located?”

“No, Mam, I can’t say that I do, and I’ve lived my entire life here. I think if you follow Main Street down to the end of the Municipal Building, you’ll have better luck. Ask if you can speak to Emily in the Municipal Building. She’s forgotten more about everyone and everything in this town than anyone else ever knew.”

Camille’s face registers a look of confusion. “Oh, right, I’ll do that. Thanks so much, have a good day. The young man goes about his task of moving the sacks from the truck to inside the store.

Camille drives down the street to a building with a sign stating Sandston Police Station and Municipal Building. As she enters, she sees a mailbox with the legend Water and Sewer bill across its shiny brass surface. Camille makes her way inside to a counter, where she sees several middle-aged women sitting at desks.

They’re typing on outdated computers and answering phones that never cease ringing the whole time she stands there. She waits for one of them to acknowledge her, but no one does. “Excuse me, does anyone know how to get to Dry Bridge Court Cemetery?” She waits a couple of beats.

“Yes, I do.” says a voice from the back of the room.

“Would you be Miss Emily?”

“I would. You’ll find the cemetery across the street from Calvary Church that’s just over the bridge. Follow Main Street until it forks off into two roads and bears to the left. Once you cross the bridge, drive about a quarter-mile down the road, and you’ll see the cemetery on the right, across the road from the church. The church isn’t there anymore. There’s a house there. The church burnt down long before I was born.” Miss Emily disappears once more behind her desk.

Camille registers yet another look of confusion. But says, “Well, thank you very much for your help.” She returns to her van and drives down the road. “Well, I’ll be.” She says out loud.

She finds the cemetery without any difficulty, just as Miss Emily instructed her. Across from Calvary Church, that no longer stands there. She steps down from the truck and retrieves her boots, and puts them on.  She walks into what must have been the church’s cemetery. There’s a broken-down wall made of fieldstones surrounding the cemetery. Just as she’s walking through the entrance, she hears a voice.

“Hey you, what are you doing in there? What do you want?”

She looks in the direction of the voice and sees a middle-aged man wearing an old felt hat walking towards her. As he steps closer, she sees he’s older than she thought at first. His blue eyes radiate intelligence. He looks directly at her. “What are you doing? We’ve had a lot of trouble with people vandalizing the churchyard. Are you from this area?”

“Hello, no, I’m not from this area. I’m a collector of sorts. I spend my life preserving remnants of the past. I do this by visiting deserted cemeteries and taking cuttings from Heritage Rose bushes. I take them back home with me to my farm in Dublin, Pennsylvania, and propagate them. I make a living doing this. But my main purpose is to save these roses that would otherwise be lost.”

“Do you? Well, that’s an unusual way of making a living. Saving the past for the future, that’s wonderful. My grandmother was a gardener as well. She loved her roses and watching the changing of the seasons. Watching things grow, the cycle of life she called it. She said it was life-affirming. “I do. It’s a pleasure to meet someone so like-minded. Do you mind if I have a look around the cemetery for any rose shrubs that might still be there?”

“Of course, you can look, but I’m sorry to say that you won’t find any. Last year some kids came into the cemetery and desecrated the graves. They pulled out all the plants that were growing there.  I’m afraid they were all destroyed. It’s hard to fathom why anyone would do such a thing. It’s a strange world we live in these days.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s terrible, did the police find the kids that committed the crime?”

“Well, we had a good idea who was responsible, but no proof. I’ve tried to keep my eye on the cemetery ever since. Where will you be headed now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My last stop is Wilson, North Carolina, and then I’ll be returning home. I plan on visiting the Wilson Botanical Rose Garden. There’s a small cemetery located in Wilson that’s been there for over one hundred years. I’ll be stopping there as well.  Well, thank you so much for your time. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safely.”

Camille walks back to her truck, disappointed about the loss of the roses. If only she had come here last year. Oh, there’s no point in dwelling on things that can’t be undone. You have to keep moving forward. If anything, it just makes her more resolute in her commitment to saving other roses. She drives back onto the road. She beeps and waves at the farmer as she drives away.

As she arrives at the outskirts of Wilson in the late afternoon, Camille decides to stop for lunch at a little restaurant called Jake’s Place. As she walks through the door of the restaurant, it feels and looks like she’s taking a step back in time to the early 1950s. There are pink and black linoleum tiles on the floor. The tables and chairs are Formica banded by chrome. It’s not a recreation of a 1950’s diner. It’s the real thing, unchanged by time. The customers are talking animatedly to the people sitting next to them.

The waitress takes her to a booth in the back. Camille thanked her and asked for the lunch special and a cup of hot tea. After the waitress brings Camille her lunch, she thinks about her plans for the next couple of days. She decides to visit the cemetery first and visit the Botanical Gardens the next day. She pays her bill and heads out the door.

To her dismay, her truck refuses to start. She waits a few minutes and then tries again, but no luck. It seems as if the battery is dead. She heads back into the restaurant to the cashier’s counter. “Hello, my car won’t start, can you recommend a mechanic or garage that I can contact to have a look at it?”

“Well, yes, I can. As a matter of fact, he’s sitting right at the counter over there. Hold on.”

“Mat, hey Mat, can you give this young lady a hand? She’s having trouble with her car out in the parking lot?”

“What sure, I’m finishing my lunch. So perfect timing.”

As they walk out the door, Camille thinks well, this day has gotten off to a rocky start. “Hi, it’s the van right over here. It was running fine, and now it won’t start.”

“Well, that’s how things happen sometimes with a car. One minute it’s fine, and the next it’s not. Let’s see what’s happening. He turns the key, but nothing. Then he looks under the hood. ”

“The cables are corroded. Let me try to jump-start it.” He jump-starts it. It starts up, and he lets it charge for a few minutes.

“I think you should follow me over to my garage so I can test it. It may need a new alternator. If it does, I’ll have to order one because I don’t keep parts for cars this old. It’ll take a day or two.”

“Oh, no. Ok, I’ll follow you over to your garage.”

After they arrive, he drives Camille’s van into the garage and comes out about ten minutes later. I’m sorry, but it’s the alternator. I called my supplier, and he can have one here in about forty-eight hours.”

“What? Can you suggest a hotel or motel nearby for me to stay overnight?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there’s a motel down this road. Now don’t laugh, but it’s called the Robert E. Lee Inn. Tell them that Mat from the garage sent you over, and you’re waiting for your truck to be repaired.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that, and thanks for your help Mat.”

After Camille checks in at the motel, she brings her bag to the hotel room. She decides to take a look around town. She goes down to the lobby to talk to the desk clerk. “Hello again, I was wondering if you knew of any old graveyards that are within walking distance? That I could visit while my car is being serviced.”

“Cemeteries, I like to say that’s an unusual request, but it’s not. There’s one that’s old but is still occasionally being used by the local gentry. It’s called the Historic London Church. Just follow this road to the end. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks so much. I hope I have better luck than I have had so far today.”

Camille takes her time walking down the street. It’s quite charming in an old South kind of way. The homes have large pillared wrap-around porches. Camille imagines that in the summer, the neighbors gather round on them.  Passing the time of day with each other, drinking sweet tea. Their yards are beautifully landscaped with many old trees. One house has a Southern Magnolia that is over a hundred feet tall. It towers over the other trees nearby. She imagines how beautiful it will look in late spring. The magnificent cream-colored Magnolia flowers are in full bloom and spreading their heavy fragrance through the neighborhood with the evening breeze.

She sees an old church ahead and walks towards it.  She hopes for better luck in this cemetery. Then she remembers her tools and containers are in the van. Well, it can’t hurt to look around. She can come back later and retrieve cuttings if she finds any.

As she enters the grounds, she notices a dog lying on a recently dug gravesite near the entrance. As she walks near the dog, he looks up at her with large brown eyes. But he continues his vigil at the grave. Camille loves dogs but hasn’t had any pets since she was a young child. The dog is black and white with long, wavy fur. He has an unusual black diamond marking on the top of her head. He keeps his eyes on Camille. Against her better judgment, Camille leans down, pets his head, and scratches behind his ears.

Camille is startled when she hears a voice nearby call out, “You’re the first person that she’s responded to since Claire passed away two weeks ago. I’ve been bringing her food and water. Several people have wanted to take her in, but she wanted no part of them.”

“Oh, she’s a beautiful dog, is she a Cocker Spaniel?”

“Yes, she is, her name is Rosie. Claire loved roses more than anything in this world. That’s why she called her Rosie.”

“Rosie, she must have sensed a kindred spirit in me. I came here to see the roses. I collect and propagate old roses.”

“Really, well, that’s an amazing coincidence. Or perhaps it was meant to be, but I guess I’m old fashioned. I believe in kismet.  Perhaps you two were meant to meet.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not looking for a dog. I came here looking for roses to save.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly what you’re here to do, save Rosie. We all thought she would lie here and die from a broken heart.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Would it be alright if I just took a look around while I’m here?”

“Of course, look around. Many of the roses you see here were planted by Claire. She, too, collected cuttings from rose bushes of the family cemeteries in this area. I’m sure she would love it if you took some of them with you and propagated them.”

As Camille walks up and down the rows of graves, the sheer number and variety of rose bushes that are growing here amaze her. Roses she only dreamed of owning.

Camille has a feeling that she isn’t alone. She looks behind her and sees that Rosie has been keeping her company. Rosie is looking at her like a child who thought she lost her mother and then found her again.

Camille says, ” Rosie, I think that I have found a very rare rose indeed. I think you might be the rose I have been looking for all my life.”

The Kitchen

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Our day begins in the kitchen. We wake up to the aroma of coffee percolating on the kitchen counter and bacon and eggs frying on the stove. I’m not big on eating first thing in the morning. But my mother insists that we eat a breakfast that will stick to our ribs for the rest of the day.

My mother in pin curls sitting in our kitchen

As I walk into the bright yellow and orange room, I see my mother hunched over the wide kitchen counter. My father recently redecorated. My father’s a creative man with an unusual sense of color and design. He is, unfortunately wildly attracted to psychedelic patterns. He made the kitchen counters really wide. He made the counter in front of the sink wide as well. My mother has difficulty reaching the sink since it’s set back so far from the edge of the counter.

My father purchased a kit to decorate the kitchen counters with small bits of multi-colored tiles. After he spread the tile bits, he poured some type of liquid resin over it. It took a long time to dry and had a somewhat lumpy result. Unfortunately, the dirt tends to accumulate in the lower recesses of our bumpy countertop.

Hanging from the ceiling over the kitchen table, my father fashioned a candelabra of sorts. He found a giant wagon wheel in the dumpster of a Steak house Restaurant and brought it home to serve as a light fixture in our kitchen. Of course, our kitchen is much smaller than the Steak House dining room, and our kitchen ceiling is much lower than the dining room in the Steak House, where it formerly resided. The wagon wheel hangs right above our heads at the table. If you aren’t paying attention when you stand up, you take a chance that you might knock yourself out when you stand. We have to back our chairs up and then stand to avoid getting a new bump on our noggins each time we sit or stand at the table for a meal. Mealtime is no longer a quiet time to reflect on the day. It’s time to pay attention to the surroundings, or you can end up in the Emergency Room.

I look across the kitchen and see my mother is hunched over the stove, frying the eggs and bacon. “Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning Susie, what can I get you for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry Mom, how about a piece of toast.”

A couple of minutes later, my mother brings me a bowl of hot oatmeal. “Here, Susie, this will stick to your ribs. Eat up,”

I look down at the bowl of steaming oatmeal, and I begin to feel sick to my stomach. I hate hot cereal. I have told my mother this time and again. But she always says the same thing to me. “Nonsense, eat up.”

I’m repeatedly told I’m a picky eater. Which is probably true. But none the less I detest hot cereal.

Unfortunately for me, I have to ride an ancient school bus to Haddonfield, where I go to high school at St. Mary of The Angel’s Academy. It is my Freshman Year. The bus is on its last legs, and the shocks on the wheels died a slow and painful death a long time ago. It’s a long and rocky ride to school. We have to pick up all the students that go to St. Mary’s and the boys from Bishop Eustace Prep. So, we have to ride all over Burlington and Camden County and Haddon Township. It takes over an hour.

By the time we arrive at school, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. And start the day off by throwing up the moment I step down out of the bus. Mr. Hartman, a lovely man who came from Ireland, is the bus driver, gives me the same sympathetic look every day as I pass by him in the driver’s seat. He knows what’s going to happen momentarily. None of the other students on the bus ever mention my daily purge.

When I was going to grade school at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, I came home for lunch as we lived two houses away from the school. Every day when the lunch bell rings, I rush up to the front of the classroom to line up to go home to eat. Not because I was looking forward to my lunch, it was always the same. I hated school with a passion and can barely tolerate one extra moment in the presence of the dear Sisters.

One day as I stood at the front of the classroom, I realize I have to pee immediately. I raise my hand.  Sister ignores me. I begin waving my hand and arm urgently. Finally, Sister said impatiently, “What is it, Susan?”

“Sister, I have to go to the girl’s room right now.”

“Susan, you have to learn patience and self-control. You can and will wait until you get home.”

I wave again more frantically. Sister ignores me. I realize I’m peeing my pants. All the other kids notice it at the same time and start laughing. I begin to cry.

Sister says, “you will wait until the second bell, Miss Carberry.”

I’m simultaneously crying and peeing. I vow to myself that I will never return to this wretched place again. The second bell rings. The kids in line are permitted to go home for lunch. I keep my head down.

I emerge from the school, I take off like a rocket and get home in record-breaking time. I yank open the screen and the front door and allow them both to slam closed. I rush to the bathroom. I hear my father yelling at me from the kitchen. “What’s the matter, Susie, pants on fire?”

After taking care of the wet pants, I walk out to the kitchen nonchalantly. My mother says, “How was your morning, Susie? Did you learn anything new?”

“Yes, Mom, I learned that I shouldn’t take a long drink at the water fountain before lunch.”

“Did Sister tell you that Susie?”

“Not exactly Mom, she told me that I needed to learn patience and self-control. And I learned that I really hate Sister Daniel Catherine.”

“Susan, you should never say you hate anyone, especially one of the Sisters, that’s a mortal sin.”

“OK, Mom, I won’t say I hate one of the Sister’s ever again. I promise.” And I never did say I hated one of the sisters out loud ever again. But I said it many, many times inside my head.

“Susan, sit down I made your Lipton Noodle Soup and Lebanon Bologna sandwich it’s all ready.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’m starved.” Lunch was never a surprise since I had the same lunch every day for eight years, through elementary school years. Although on special occasions I had Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

As I eat my lunch, my father sits across from me, eating his six hot dogs. He doesn’t eat hot dog rolls, only the hot dogs with relish. They are cut up in little slices. My father doesn’t like it if anyone talks while he is eating. So, I sit quietly until he finishes eating. And then I bend his ear and tell him everything that happened in school that day. This is actually his dinner since he works the second shift at PTC, which is the Philadelphia Bus Company. He is the Head Dispatcher at the bus depot for the entire city of Philadelphia. When my father has to work the third shift, he sleeps all day, and we aren’t allowed to make any noise and wake him up. My father is deaf in one ear, and we always pray that he is sleeping on his one good ear.

My mother rarely sits down at mealtimes. She’s always getting dinner ready or serving dinner or cleaning up after. Sometimes my mother has her hair set in bobby pins all day unless she is going to go to Mass with the Altar Rosary Society. They are a group of women who say the Rosary together early every morning, and they wash and iron the Altar vestments and clean the Sanctuary in the church.

Right after lunch, my mother starts getting ready to cook dinner. My favorite meal is Irish Stew which is made with beef and carrots, onions and celery and potatoes. After my mom cooks the stew for many hours, she rolls out the dough and puts in on the top of the casserole. And puts it in the oven to bake the dough and let it rise and brown. It’s delicious.

While dinner is cooking, my mother irons. The ironing board is in a little closet on the wall next to the refrigerator. You open the closet door and pull down the ironing board. My mother irons clothes, sheets, and my father’s underwear and his socks. She irons all our clothes. Then cleans the whole house. I have never heard her complain about anything.

Everyone tells me,” your mother’s a saint,” and I believe them. She works so hard and takes care of everyone in our family. And always has a kind word to say. I never heard her say a mean thing in my entire life. I wish I could say the same about myself, but I get mad all the time, at my sisters, my father and the dear sisters, every one of them. I doubt that I will ever be as good a person as my mother.

It’s one of the things I have to tell Father Nolan in confession all the time. He tells me to say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. No matter what sins I commit, he gives me the same penance, three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.

My mother is a quiet person. But a good listener. Every day when my sisters and I come home, she asks us how our day went. And she sits and listens until you finish talking and then she offers you cookies and milk.

After dinner, my mother sits at the kitchen table while we do homework. She quizzes me on my spelling words. She gives me hints if I don’t know how to spell the word. If my father is home, he helps me do my math homework. He works out the problems differently than I do in school, but he always gets the answer right. I keep telling him that’s not the way we do it in school. We do New Math. He tells me that we are doing it incorrectly. He shows me how to do it. He is always right.

But in school, I do it their way. My father is a smart man. He reads a lot on every kind of subject. Right now, he is studying all the world’s religions. He doesn’t go to church as my mother does. But he is curious about the world and the people in it. You ask him any question, he knows the answer. My father’s memory is phenomenal. He remembers everything he reads and hears.

On Sundays, one of my father’s days off, he watches golf on TV. It’s the most annoying thing you can imagine. He is transfixed while he is watching it. Sometimes he feels compelled to tell you about the golf game swing by swing. Although I’m impressed by his ability to remember, I want to plug up ears every time he starts talking about golf. It is unbelievably tedious.

My father watching the news 1960s

Television is an amazing thing, no doubt. But in our house, my father controls what we watch. He is the King of his castle. On his days off, he watches the 6 O’clock news with Walter Cronkite. We aren’t allowed to utter a sound when it’s on. If we want to watch TV, we watch what he watches, end of story. I have become quite fond of Cowboy stories like Matt Dillon and The Lone Ranger. My father and I watch it together. My father pets our dog Andy, the whole time he is watching TV.

My mom brings my father a bowl of ice cream to eat while he is watching TV in the evening. He doesn’t tell her or ask her. She brings it in and, he eats it with salty pretzels. My mother brings herself a bowl too. She is extremely fond of ice cream. She is the proud owner of a sweet tooth that I inherited.

At the end of the night, my dad lets Andy our dog go to the bathroom and waits for him to come back inside. My mother gathers all the coffee cups, ice cream bowls, and glasses and takes them in the kitchen to wash. My dad turns out the lights, and we all go to bed. The next morning, we wake up and start all over again. Good Night.

Don’t Go Walking After Midnight

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It’s my habit to take a long walk in the morning. At first, I only walked a half a mile each morning. But each week I increased it by one half a mile. After five weeks and I was up to five and a half miles a day. I think this is my limit for the time being. I keep a fairly quick pace, and so after the first two miles, my legs start to cramp up. This is my signal to keep walking faster until the cramps subside. And I don’t stop until I reach five- and one-half miles on my pedometer.

A walk in the Park

Park

I’m sure you are thinking but why are you telling me this? Could this be more boring? Honestly, it could become quite mundane. But it isn’t, and the reason is this. Every day when I take a walk, something weird happens. Or I meet someone that I knew in the past and haven’t seen for years. Sometimes I meet someone unbelievably interesting or horrifyingly strange.

How is that possible? I’m glad you asked. I have absolutely no idea how it is possible. I only know that it is god’s own truth. Let me begin by telling you that I’m an ordinary person. I’m middle-aged. Not breathtakingly beautiful or hideous. Just average, at least to look at.

I have lost about fifteen pounds over the course of the past six months since I started walking. I have what used to be called dirty brown hair with a touch of gray. I think I look somewhat younger than my age, which is forty-two. When young I was known for my deep dimples. Unfortunately, as I grew older, the once adorable dimples turned into wrinkles.

But within me, I have always believed I was special, highly intelligent, and creative. I’m really funny in a sarcastic, snarky kind of way. I’m often the center of attention at parties. And to be perfectly honest, for some reason, weird people are attracted to me.

Here’s an example to prove my point. This happened years ago.  I was shopping at this store. that no longer exists. It was called Edmond’s Scientific. It was a manufacturing company that made scientific glass and telescopes and similar items for laboratories.

But within the four walls of Edmond’s Scientific outlet store was very diverse, and might I say an odd assortment of objects for sale beside the scientific glassware. They sold science kits for all the nerdy science kids, seashells and bones and rocks of every kind, fossils and toy dinosaurs and mirrors that distorted your image. And random gadgets that I could never ascertain their purpose.

I was always attracted to the picture books of oddities. I always found things like Siamese twins who had one body but two heads or sheep with one eye fascinating. Stuff like that, yes, that’s a little odd. But if we were all completely candid, we would admit we have an attraction to all things weird and unconventional.

But I digress, that day while I was cruising the isles of Edmund Scientific, a middle-aged man comes over to me and starts talking rapidly. He kept asking me if I would be interested in going to a nearby flea market with him where he sold things to make money.

I was barely able to focus on what he was saying because I am transfixed by his appearance. He was shorter than I, and I’m about five feet with heels. He had a slack but somehow animated face. Which is an odd combination, I know? But true nonetheless. He had a unibrow that went from one side of his forehead to the other. He had a scrawny goatee that is white and braided. And an earring that was a shrunken head. And the really fascinating thing was the ring of toothpaste around his mouth. It was gross, and yet I couldn’t stop staring at it. As I thought, does he know that is on his face? Doesn’t he feel it? Did he look in the mirror after brushing? I had an irresistible urge to wipe his face off with a handi-wipe. At the same time, I wanted to get as far away as possible.

I am always been confronted by these two conflicting but irresistible feelings. Being attracted and repelled at the same time. I chose to run swiftly out the door and into my car. And drove away as quickly as it’s possible. I often wonder if I am somehow inviting this type of attention. But if I am, I didn’t know the mechanism. Nor how to stop it.

Anyway, I digress, since I first start going to Washington Park I went very early in the morning. In the late Spring, that was about six AM. I found that about eighty percent of the people who go out at first light are very mundane, and the other twenty percent of them are quite odd. There are groups of buff young men that go to play tennis. I have to admit I stop and watch them for quite a while. Although I am almost middle-aged, I’m still breathing. What can I say?

Then there are the people who meet every morning in the parking lot and then walk in groups. They keep up at a fairly decent clip but aren’t averse to stopping and talking quite animatedly if someone is telling an exciting bit of gossip or story. These groups are usually of retirement age.

Then there are the older men who usually come alone and walk alone. I often say hi to these guys and everyone else for that matter but they rarely, if ever say hello back. In general, they prefer to keep human contact to an absolute minimum.

There’s a young woman that uses roller blades. She is quite athletic looking and wears tight clothes that are apparently meant to be aerodynamic. Her hair is short and very blond. I can’t emphasize how I envy her youth, athletic ability, and low body fat. In the time it takes me to travel around the park one time, she has gone around three times. I wave each time she passes me, but she’s wearing headphones and is apparently in the zone. And does not seem to be aware of the people around her.

One day I decide to go through the woods trail to increase the difficulty and calorie-burning effect of my experience. It was somewhat dark in the woods because of the trees. As I entered the dense canopy area, I hear a rustling in the woods. I was squinting at the tree-lined area, and I see what I believed to be two men running towards me at a very quick pace. I became momentarily frightened because I thought I was the only woman walking in the woodsy area in the early morning. As they were coming closer, I begin to scream at the top of my voice. Thinking I was about to be murdered or raped.

I hear them right behind me and quickly turn my head in that direction. And it is at this point I realize that the men that are chasing me were not men at all. But a deer rushing through the woods in my direction. I don’t know if I was more relieved or more embarrassed. And my main concern was that no one had seen me act like a hysterical woman. I am completely out of breath and sweating like nobody’s business. I stop to catch my breath. And then I start laughing hysterically. I realize that it was the best workout that I ever had.

As I was saying before I went off on that tangent. I am so inspired by the young blond woman on rollerblades that I decide to purchase my own skates. Also, I buy a helmet and knee pads. As a child, I learned to skate using the old fashion type of skates that you wore over your shoes and are tightened with a key.

If you made a sudden stop, the skates would come off the front of your shoe. And you would trip and fall on your knees if you put your hands out. If not, you would fall flat on your face. I was not particularly athletic, and most often I fell flat on my face. Either way, you chipped your front teeth or skinned your knees. I spent most of my early childhood with what was called road rash — heavily scabbed knees.

When I was in my early teens, I would walk downtown in Maple Shade, NJ, where I grew up, and catch the bus in front of the police station. For a quarter, you could take the bus to the Riverside Roller Rink. My friends and I would go there every Saturday morning and skate for three hours for fifty cents. I have to admit my skating skills never really improved. I always came home bruised and battered and scraped. But it was great fun.

So, my initial rollerblading experience at Washington Lake Park was not a complete success. I found that rollerblading on the cement sidewalk is not as easy as it looks. And there were many parts of the path that went uphill. I barely made it up those hills. And then there are the inevitable one hundred miles an hour hair raising trip downhill.

One day an older couple in their late sixties kept yelling at me.” Come on you can go faster than that.” I gave them the Italian salute. I can’t say I blame them because they passed me walking at a somewhat leisurely pace.

I was fifty years old when I decided to try rollerblading. This is probably not the best time in life to try rollerblading. You have neither the agility nor energy to keep up with the lithe young women in their early twenties as I found out. The other factor that I failed to take into consideration was that I did not know how to stop skating.

You’re supposed to point the toe of the skate down and this slows you down. And you slowly come to a complete and safe stop. Unfortunately, I did not know this. And the only way I was able to stop was to skate onto the grass and then fall over.

At this point, I decided to try rollerblading at a skating rink. So, one beautiful sunny day, I drove to the self-same Riverside Roller Rink I used to go to as a kid and went skating. And believe it or not, I was doing fabulously. Right up until the point where I start going very fast, and suddenly, I found my legs going up in the air. And you guessed it, my rear end went down. Hard. I couldn’t get up. I was in agony. I crawled over to the side of the roller rink and sat down and cried like a baby. And believe it or not, not one person came over to ask if I was alright. It turns out that I broke my tailbone. I wasn’t able to sit on a chair for six months. That was the end of my journey to be a skater.

As I was explaining before I went off on that tangent. One day I was walking through the woodsy part of the park, and I noticed a young woman pushing a baby carriage. She was staring down at the ground. As I walked past her, I asked her,” what are you looking at?”

“There’s a snake over here, and I’m afraid to walk past it. “

“Snake you say, I don’t think so. I’ve been coming to this park for a long time, and I’ve never seen any snakes. But there are no dangerous snakes in this part of NJ.”

So, I walk over to the “snake” and pushed it with my foot. And say,” See, it’s just a stick.” And then the “stick” started moving and made its way onto the grass and away. The young woman looks at me with an air of superiority and walks quickly away.  I say,” “whoops” to myself. And walk away.

Overall my time spent walking in the park was a positive experience. The main problem I have is dealing with my own paranoia. And the fact that I want to engage every person I see in some way big or small. I guess I’m both a paranoid and overly friendly person at the same time. I’m both the Yin and the Yang. But then aren’t we all to some degree. We are a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions. My final advice is, get your ass in gear and enjoy the rays. But, watch your back.