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It is later in the day than normal. I prefer walking after sunrise. By now the sun is too high. There are too many people. The park playground is full of screaming kids and their proud, young mothers. No one notices me. I glide past them like a specter.
During a walk near the local school I noticed a man on a roof of one of the prefabricated buildings that clutter the schoolyard. A giant tub of roofing cement in front of him, he was frozen in an impossible position. Seagulls walked around him, flew over him. He remained frozen except for one arm that swung back and forth as it lathered black goop onto the homely, little roof.
Dragging myself out, I walk in a daze out into a cold fog and down to the park. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I veer off the path into the wet-sponge grass. My feet instantly get soaked, affirming my theory that once your feet are wet, the day is shot. It's time to go back to bed. I feel the sogginess seep into my new, white socks. I look down at my old, sad sneakers, thinking to myself that they are past their prime. I feel like an alien on a planet of someone else's choosing. I shrug it off—not enough coffee I suppose. Then I look up. Something is different.
It all started last Christmas but I'd long forgotten about it. I'd forgotten that is, until last week when I started walking along the old rail path again. Lost in thought, about a quarter mile from home I saw it again and it made me laugh just like it did upon my first discovery.
I am a creature of habit. I will walk the same walk for months on end at mostly the same time, mostly every day. Then something knocks me off my routine and some new habit takes form. That habit replaces the daily walk until some other thing happens that ruins the new routine as well. Sometimes things come full circle and I find myself walking again, as is lately the case.
There is this Italian caffé and bakery near our home. I'm not much for pastry, Italian or otherwise, but come Christmas I always buy a panetone. It is my firm belief that the panetone at this bakery is the best outside of Italy. It's not a traditional Milanese panatone as it is flecked with rich, dark chocolate. But the chocolate is used with good sense and I like it. Every year I look forward to eating it on Christmas morning. And I look forward to the ritual of going to the bakery and buying it.
The neighbor across the street has a plastic Santa with a light bulb inside it. I always know the holidays are here when it suddenly appears by her garage. I've never actually seen her put it out—I've come to believe that the incandescent Santa arrives on its own. It's a fickle Santa. One year it decided not to show up at all and the neighborhood was much the poorer for it. So far, this year, I am still waiting. As I write this I look out the window and into the hazy day. The neighbor's garage is sans Santa.
The entire weekend was a shroud of fog and rain, a lazy prelude to the looming holidays. It is hard to take a camera out in this weather, mostly because one would prefer a blanket and black cat to stay warm. But the mundane world is transformed into wonderland for those with the initiative to venture forth.
"They're here"
One hears it everywhere—the oddly ominous declaration that the holidays are upon us. So much rides on the opening of the season. It is important business for us to be cheerful and generous. It seems that the entire world puts its faith in Americans feeling good about the holidays. The American consumer has replaced Baby Jesus as the icon of Christmas. Like a global manger scene, the media and economists watch over consumer sentiment (spending) as if it were a precious child.
There is a tree in the town park about which I often write. Tall and singular, it is an easy object of affection. Meanwhile, another tree, a tiny one in a clay pot, has been growing lemons outside our back door. This week it has given forth a basket of perfect Meyer lemons. Have I neglected this selfless little citrus?
