When I left the house this morning it was in the 50s. I was sure if I breathed into the chill morning air, a wisp of breath vapor would be present. Once again a light pair of gloves would not be out of the question. The wind kicked up, which stirred the trees and rustled the leaves and I knew I was not going to be shucking my sweatshirt cardigan until I was back in the house.
The sun was filtering through the clouds as I reached the house on the corner of Pagel and Ferris Streets. I saw the two pooches were out. They generally race over and run the length of the fence while I pass. Cheyenne is the elder of the two. He is an old beagle, with an almost completely white face. He was basking in the warmth of the sun, and squinting as the sun’s rays were going into his eyes. I got right up near him and there he sat, complacent and very quiet (for once in his life), while his companion, a toy poodle, ran circles around the yard, yip-yapping the entire time I strode by. I know Cheyenne’s name as his owners yell at him constantly to shut up whenever he is out in the yard. It is incessant baying every weeknight and all weekend, whether the owners are in the yard or not. Sometimes when I’ve spent an entire weekend day outside, I was sure I’d lose my mind between the baying beagle and “Turkey in the Straw” looping continuously from the ice cream man’s truck. I don’t know the poodle’s name … it spends its time frolicking in the yard or hopping up and down at the back door to get in. He lets Cheyenne make the noise for both of them. Ahhhh … pets.
I crossed the street and headed to Council Point Park on this very still and tranquil morning. I saw no cars or people the entire trip down there. There was no humming A/C units as most people had flung open their windows, and some screen doors were open as well, to let in the cool, crisp air circulate in the house. I am sure most people were still catching up on their ZZZZZZs.
Following up on the trials and tribulations of the MIA person who somehow became detached from his/her breakfast; well, you just know I had to steal a glance toward the parking curb in the Mixter Elementary School lot, the subject of yesterday’s blog post. There was nary a trace of any of the breakfast items that sat atop the curb yesterday. The wind no doubt whisked the paper bag, and waxy paper away and the cup is rolling around somewhere. Who knows what lucky critters enjoyed a yummy cinnamon roll for breakfast? I’ll look at the whole situation with a glass half-full attitude and hopefully there was never any need for consternation.
My boss is in the U.P. for a few days. I hope he took his long underwear with him. He has friends who own a huge lodge in the middle of the Hiawatha National Forest. He says the forest is so dense, you can barely see the lodge. It takes nine hours to get there but he says once he arrives in God’s Country, he breathes deep and just takes it all in; he says it clears his head and restores his soul. I told him I kinda feel like that when I visit Council Point Park, without the horrible long drive. He chuckled because he knows I don’t like to drive.
The Park was busy this morning with everyone taking advantage of the beautiful morning to run, jog, walk or bike. Everyone in the Park was solo like me, either mindlessly walking the path, tuned into their music or deep in thought. All these people noiselessly walking the tranquil trail, then you have that bleepin’ bullfrog. As I walked the twists and turns of the perimeter path that runs along the Ecorse Creek’s edge, I actually thought I heard more than one bullfrog. The creek looked a little brown and murky this morning, as I gazed between the reeds and across the water in search of the bigmouth bullfrog or his buddies, but I didn’t see them.
I can’t forget to mention there was a series of mini explosions interrupting the Park’s ambiance. The first one startled me out of my reverie, and then I heard another, and another … no one else looked worried. I am a perpetual worrier, and often a fatalist, tending to always expect the worst. The intermittent explosions continued … pop, pop, pop … and then a break, then another. This went on the entire time I was at the Park. I convinced myself that it was probably associated with the filming of “Transformers 4” in downtown Detroit.
When I returned to the entrance of the Park, I saw a couple of young boys looking skyward, transfixed on a kite that was dancing merrily in the stiff breeze. There was an older boy guiding the kite and he expertly made it rise and fall repeatedly. I stopped to watch the kite dip really low, then shoot for the Heavens with its beribboned tail gliding straight behind. I cannot remember how many years since I tried flying a kite – it has to be four, if not five, decades!! Oops, a lady never tells her age. It made me want to go out and buy a kite and give it a whirl. Well, you are only as old as you feel, and in the words of ol’ Honest Abe:
“It’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” – Abraham Lincoln