In addition to the fading glory of the foliage, the oceans of fallen leaves underfoot, the joggers, and the runners, this is what I saw and heard last Sunday morning during my daily walk in Prospect Park.
I saw a father blowing bubbles towards his child, perhaps 20 months old, who toddled towards him trying to catch a bubble, while his mother watched. I saw a beautifully combed and brushed brown and white Springer spaniel. I heard a father saying to his child, “See all those runners? Where do you think they’re going?” I didn’t catch what the child said but the father laughed. The question was a good one, for the runners weren’t going anywhere. I saw ten ducks swimming in the dog-paddle pond, across which a barrier had been thrown to keep dogs from venturing onto the ice that often forms in winter. I saw four guys throwing a football to one another and four guys line skating in close formation. I saw several phalanxes of racing cyclists. I saw a dog playing fetch with his master on the Long Meadow. This was after nine, when dogs are not supposed to run free.
A woman smiled at me (was she thinking, “isn’t he cute?”). She was standing next to a man. A tall, well-turned out couple in their forties, watching the dog playing fetch, they looked the essence of “U.” I smiled back and said “good morning,” which they repeated to me.
I saw the homeless man I wrote about in Monday’s post. He was sitting on a rock outside the Endale Arch. He was talking to a woman with a dog, so I heard him speak for the first time. He has a West Indian accent. (The next day I saw him hunched up against the wall, all but his head buried in blankets. He looked at me. I called out “good morning” and he replied “good morning, sir.)
I saw a special bench on the path that runs parallel, more or less, to the East Drive. What makes it special is that for a long time several photographs of a twenty-something young man had been affixed to it along with the dates of his birth and death and a note to the effect that he had died of cancer. A bouquet of flowers, replenished from time to time, was placed next to the photograph. But the bench had neither photographs, nor note, nor flowers. And I thought of the tragedy of the young man’s early death.
And of course I thought how lucky I’ve been to have lived so long (yesterday I turned 80). For many old people the notion of “golden years” is bitterly ironic, if they are beleaguered by straitened incomes or poor health or the loss of a beloved spouse. My old age, though, has been truly golden so far, if enjoyment of life is the chief criterion. Let’s see what happens next, now that I’ve joined the ranks of the octogenarians. Whatever comes next, though, I won’t have any grounds for complaint. I've had a good run.
2010-2011 Anchises-An Old Man’s Journal All Rights Reserved
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