Near Ferril Lake’s edge a gray-bearded man lies stretched out, legs crossed, shoulders leaning against his backpack, fishing pole line swaying slightly in the water. As I pass, I hear his snore, steady as a scooter engine.
Fast-walking young woman on her phone: “it’s their tradition. They’re going to eat a turkey leg. I know. Gross.”
City Park Elm
The sidewalk around the lake has been freshly power-washed: no goose shit. I don’t have to watch every step, stride forward, liberated.
Public restroom. Spray-painted lop-sided red heart fills one wall, another has painted over, still legible obscenities. The wet concrete floor puddles around the metal toilet, smells vaguely of beer. Under the sink, a small plastic whiskey bottle, an empty pack of Zig Zag rolling papers, two cigarette butts. Touch nothing. Pee and go.
A middle-aged couple share a bench with a view of the mountains, a thermos of coffee and sack of breakfast sandwiches between them, folded sections of the New York Times in their laps.
A woman approaches, says, I think I know you. We’ve met at classical music performances by our mutual friends, the cellists, chatted at a party. Further proof of my theory that you can’t have an affair in this town—where ever you go, you see someone you know.
Your writing prompt, should you choose to accept it: pick a place, a date, a time. Write what you see and hear. Post your response in comments.
Twelve Mile Creek, after the husband has crossed over the square timber bridge, I lean my bike against an aspen to take a few notes on butterflies. July 5th snow melt cuts a groove into the embankment where a bull moose scared me senseless last year. I see the first bumblebee of this late starting summer, and a hummingbird buzzes my red notebook.
Such a nice contrast to my city observations!
Saag
Needing to make Indian food for tomorrow’s potluck book club on “Erotic Stories of Punjabi Women.” Conveniently the chard in my neighbor’s yard that I am babysitting absolutely must be picked. Heady with the smell of butter melting I decide there is no need for clarification, I won’t do ghee. The kitchen filling with exotic scents of browning cumin seeds, onion, garlic, coriander and chopped ginger.
Saag Paneer! Only with chard. I can smell it. And how wonderful to have no need for clarification. Bravo, Ms. Rosenbaum.
Pat, have you read this book? I happened upon it at DPL while searching for a particular author. Why I Write was published in 1998, edited by Will Blythe. The short responses by 26 authors blew me away. The way the writers described the life and practice is beautiful and quite varied. When I read descriptions of artistic process, whether it be dancers, choreographers, writers or visual artists, I find the disciplines can all be reduced to “artists.” As in this from Pat Conroy, “ All writers (artists) are both devotees and prisoners of their childhoods and of those images that accrued during those early days on earth…”
Oh, my sag did not have paneer and I served it cold–it’s summer and made a lovely side salad to our meal under the pergola in Jill’s beautiful garden.
I don’t know that book. Thanks for the suggestion. You are right: artists of all stripes have much in common when it comes to process and all our various whys. And I knew your saag had no paneer. Sounds like it was delicious. As is the Conroy quote.
Have to tell you, Deb, DPL is a wonderful thing. Ordered that Blythe book yesterday and it arrived at my local library today. I’m going to share it with the fiction-writing class I’m teaching at DU.
I also got that book in one day! think it’s a great tome for writers, for all artists. I am so jazzed with the library too, Kanopy is a free streaming service now offered by DPL. They have awesome indie and documentary movies and now are also offering the Great Courses series free. I committed to the Creativity one today and will watch a 30 minute lecture every morning with my coffee for 24 days. Check it out!
Deb, will do!
In the heat of the day I walk west from the local Sprouts down the long hill to Belleview Park. From the baking, deserted path I wave at the engineer driving his miniature train, all the children behind him. A shallow creek meanders east to west through the grassy expanse. Parents sit in shade of old trees while toddlers enjoy splashing in the creek—a rare treat in a city where playing in the water usually means a crowded, chlorinated pool. Laughter and splashing rise through the heat to my hearing aids. Once upon a time I brought my granddaughter here. She’s fourteen now, and I wonder if she’d remember this place and that time as fondly as I do. Breath growing ragged I head back up the hill to find something cool to drink while sniffing for ripe melons at the store.
Belleview, a park I didn’t know at all, but do now.