So you want to live in Park Slope Dept.
The other day M and I, while writing and reading on a knoll in Prospect Park, are interrupted by some movement in a stand of trees. Whatever it is has caught the attention of a gaggle of people in ear buds with iPods, standing on a trail, the group of them wearing what looks like marathon bibs with No. 262 on them. A close look and I can see an athletic-looking woman is running this way and that in the bit of woodland, striking angular poses, at times like a bird at others almost simian, until she bolts away, and down the knoll past us, sprinting. After an awkward pause, the group carries on after her, doing their level best to keep up. *
Last week (July 17), Thurber and I went on a run together. Outside of a leash-pull interest in a passing jogger and a near-lunge at a leggy Rollerblader who veered a tad too close to us as she was whizzing by (note to athletes/exercisers who are passing people with big dogs: Don’t crowd them) it started okay. It’s been months since Thurb and I were last out together, given my hamstring injury in March, and caution these past few months not to go too hard with my running/strengthening, but we soon fall into an easy pace, and I favor the woods to the athlete-packed roadways, where there are too many fast-moving bikes, riders who seem to get something out of treating the park drive as their own private racetrack, beelining to patches of daylight between joggers and walkers with dogs and nannies with prams as if the place is not an open air public backyard, but a giant riding video game constructed for their testosterone-charged amusement.
In any event, it makes sense for me to take it slow with Thurb who K says has been acting out lately, sometimes during the day but worryingly at night when in his new hometown, DC, it is not uncommon for him to lunge at passersby, especially those who loom barely seen in the shadows, his genetic coding firing, because as much as we’d like to think that Thurb’s a sweet-mood mix of hound, each sub-breed canceling out the next so that he just gambols on, happy to be fed and watered, lying docile at your feet, he’s not. He was bred to tree raccoons. At night. So when the sun goes down, Thurb, the howling hound gets a-going. And people – more often than not – they just get in the way. So off we go into the park, along desire paths and up and down The Lake lookout steps, six sets in the heat, and Thurb is good for it, never pulls on the leash to stop, and makes me smile when we get to the spot, a half-hour later, a pathway not visible to the naked eye but one that Thurb and I took for weeks when he was a pup as he turns into it before I do. In fact, after that lunge toward the Rollerblader, Thurb doesn’t show any interest in others – dogs or humans. It is just the two of us, running for an hour before finally heeling at our favorite bench, from where I palm treats into his open mouth, and praise him to high heaven: “Good running, Thurb. Good running.”
Prospect Park notes
Every summer that I can remember – we’ve been in Park Slope since 1990 – The Lake has waterfowl of many types: swans, mallards, seagulls, terns and Canada geese. This year more often than not the lake surface is empty of any winged creatures. And yes, the city Department of Environmental Protection says, http://bit.ly/qL6kyo. But where are the swans and the gull? It is strange, the void of birdlife.
A park staffer with a “Woodstock” coiff leads a crew of primarily African American young people dressed in green. For the most part, they cut grasses and weed, and distribute wood chips on trails, trimming bushes. One day Woodstock is displaying a weed and talking about its medicinal purposes, saying that if you were to exact the benefits of each of the plants that naturally grow in the park, you’d never until your very old age have anything to do with manmade medication. If this guy doesn’t believe in societywide use of medical marijuana and in the open study of natural hallucinogens, then I am Thurber’s uncle. A wise retired doctor told us early this month during M and my visit to Milwaukee to see and hold Baby Leon, the drug companies, because they do not and cannot hold these patents, will litigate to their death in order to block further research and study of natural-grown herbs and remedies that have been shown to be effective in treating drug addiction, say. But don’t expect that to get around. Heaven forbid. Better to have ObamaCare than that.
A drinking fountain, a strategic place for me to get water on training runs, across from the park carousel since the end of winter, the bitter cold, and, yes, The Blizzard and the Buddha (See Running For Your Life, Jan. 4), has except for a couple of weeks been dry. It is a relatively new fountain; I’m guessing about ten years old. At first there was no sign to alert thirsty citizens that it was not working. Finally in May, a green “No Smoking Within the Park”-like sign appeared saying it was temporarily out of order. That sign remained for about a month, and when I saw it was gone I tried to take a drink. But the fountain was still dry. I can only assume someone liked the sign and took it. The fountain remained signless for a couple of weeks, and one especially warm day I stopped on the off chance it was working. It wasn’t. About two weeks ago a temporarily out of order sign was back. I can’t be sure if it is the same one, but it is spiffier. Perhaps the person who pinched it, after a dose of guilty conscience, buffed it up and brought it back. I don’t think I’ll be drinking from that fountain this season. In any event, I don't think I'll be fooled again, Mister Mayor.
Next: Running for Your Life: Canada!
* Endure: Run. Woman. Show. http://bit.ly/pWx1ag Brought to you by the Alberta Foundation for the Arts (think, Tar Sands http://nyti.ms/oc5kdt).
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