The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes -- ah, that is where the art resides.Yesterday Mary Jo and I took a short walk along the bike path next to the creek. The section of path that we took runs behind the fairgrounds, past a community garden and then more or less parallel to a high-traffic business corridor, but when hoofing it on this less-traveled route one tends nearly to forget about all that.
.......--Artur Schnabel, pianist (1882-1951)
Not that the bike path represents the beauties of nature at their finest. At this time of year, starlings flit overhead while duck parents herd their young through chest-deep, brackish-looking water littered with plastic bottles, chunks of concrete, and random debris. Blackberry brambles line the other side of the path. They haven't fruited yet, but even if they had, I'm not sure I'd be reckless enough to pick them, even above waist-high. Still, I enjoy entering this world-within-a-world, a mini nature ghetto in which wildlife blooms where it's supplanted.
Along the way we met a scruffy-looking man seated at the very edge of the path just settling in to dull the sharp edges of his day with the first of two large cans of malt liquor still frosty in their bag. A shiny, red, and incongruously expensive-looking mountain bike lay in the weeds beside him. He asked us the time of day as we passed, and we gave it to him.
A smallish heron, startled by our initial approach, flew several yards ahead, landed gracefully on a rock and then, perhaps thinking we intended him harm, hopscotched ahead of us again, and yet again before finally fleeing to less peopled habitation. A family of four smiling cyclists cheerfully rang their bells at us as they passed in the opposite direction on identical tandem bikes, and several other lone riders came up from behind, courteously saying "on your left" before disappearing around a curve. The way they approached almost silently until the last moment reminded me of the time I was mowed down by a carelessly unrepentant cyclist; and I told the story to Mary Jo, not remembering whether I'd already told it to her one or maybe all of the times we'd trod this course before.
When a red-winged blackbird sang his territorial call from a rooftop, MaryJo commented, "what a pretty song! He sounds just like a cell phone."
We paused at a bridge to watch ducks lazing on rocks and creek bank. Apparently it was their time of rest. The more energetic among them groomed themselves listlessly or drifted in indolent circles, keeping watch. A man stood on the bridge tossing bits of bread to them, though most of his congregation were on top of the bridge, sparrows whose greed lent them boldness. We said hello, and in response he pointed to a family of ducks below. "They used to have six ducklings," he told us, "but one has been missing for the last three days." He speculated that maybe a raccoon that lives in the area could have killed it. I looked for a raccoon but didn't see one. I did notice two small birds, perfectly camouflaged against the ground except for the jerky movements they made as they pecked around in the dirt. LBJs, my brother's friend calls them. Little brown jobs. Our friend on the bridge continued, "they'll eat ducklings, you know." I marveled silently at his intimate familiarity with each of the area's residents and wondered for a moment if he numbered all the stars in the firmament as well. Before we left he asked what day it was, and I said, "It's the 31st, Memorial Day."
"Oh," he replied, "that says everything."
