A walk in the park--April

Today, the action contrasts with images of bucolic calm. A dogfight--all noise and no blood. A big brown pitbull put its head down in the Nethermead and did the slow attack-walk towards a Henry, who never backs down. Dog bodies snapped and snarled, the clueless owner wandered up saying "What are you doing?" to her 75lb hunk of jaw and muscle as if it was a naughty kid in a scrape. They stopped as suddenly as they started, and this time it seemed I was more shaken than the dogs, knowing too well what could have been.

In the woods, woodpeckers rattling, and red-winged blackbirds have been shrilling by the pools over a month already.


The first little chap I saw calling with wide open beak was up and about on March 6.

Things worth keeping

Imagining how your life of ease could be different, and better, is a risky business. It could so easily turn out to be different, and worse. With this in mind, I turn today to those things that are really pretty good in the life I have, and wonder if, in any other place than this, they could possibly be bettered.

For example--I hate to harp on, but it just keeps on being superb--sunrise in the park. This is the view from the dog beach into the trees beyond.

And for example, my whippets, Henry and Simone, seen here during a good chase this morning. (You will probably have noticed by now that I am not the world's best photographer, nor do I have any capacity to edit photographs. Better get over it--I'm probably not going to get much better.)

And for example, breakfast, which may well be the very best moment of the day. By the time I get to breakfast, I have usually been up and about for up to two hours, so I am good and hungry, often cold, and more than ready to get my hands around a cup of hot coffee.

And for example, the New York Times including the Metro section, a privilege not accorded to those who obtain the paper outside of the city. It's true. Have you never been say in Massachusetts, picked up a copy of the Times for about $5, and found the best bit missing? It's dreadfully disappointing.

And say I were to go "home" to the North of England for my life of ease, I would have to give up the Times for good and revert to some other newspaper, that would not have Paul Krugman and a daily assessment of how well or badly Obama is doing and that dreadful Maureen Dowd to make me spit. I could get used to the Guardian again, but it would be a wrench. Is it still even worth reading? I have no idea. It's twenty three years since last I lived in England and all kinds of things have changed. My own brother, who ate Weetabix for breakfast for the first 60 years of his life, suddenly turned to oatmeal at the age of sixty-one, so obviously anything can happen. It's scary out there.

To go back to my list of things worth keeping, there is of course my dear daughter, but I have not asked her permission yet to include a picture of her, and so I will not. Aside from her, you may notice that I am having some trouble getting beyond breakfast time in my list of things worth keeping. Hmm. Food for thought there.

What's to dream about?

I wrote, "I dream of grass and trees." What's to dream about? I have grass and trees, right here! I have acres and acres of parkland to wander in every morning with my dogs, the sun comes up over the hill, the red-winged blackbirds sing from the topmost branches of the trees near the dog beach, a pair of cardinals hop in the leaves; there is snow for the whippets to eat, and friends to meet, and when I come home there is the New York Times waiting for me on the doorstep in its blue plastic bag (so useful for dog walks later in the day) and coffee to be made and breakfast to be eaten. It is really all quite blissful provided nothing goes wrong in the park, which it does occasionally. In fact, if my day could stop right there, be rounded by a little sleep and start all over again with the same thing, I might be perfectly happy--for a few days at least.


I met Bita on the path. She loves Henry and Simone and always gives them a treat when she sees them.

Thank you dogs. There are dogless folks who walk in the park every day, but I know that without you I would not be hauling myself out of bed before dawn seven days a week--my world would be all asphalt, for sure.