Tuesday in the Park with John (Plus Val and Francis)

Tuesday in the Park with John (Val & Francis also)

We are on our way to the park, five-year-olds, John, Val, and Francis, along with 71-year-old child care person (me). During the trip a discussion ensues between John and Val about who had the biggest injury last week.

                  The Wind Blows the Blood

Val cut his toe on the trampoline. John fell from his bike on the driveway, wearing shorts. Both claim excessive bleeding. John says that he had a lot of blood. Val says blood from his toe cut was so much that it was going up his whole leg.

John says, “It can’t do that.”

Val says it can.

“How can it?” John disputes.

 “The wind blew it up,” Val says.

John calls on me, “Papa, Can it? Can wind blow blood up a leg?”

I feel compelled to side with my grandson but with a caveat for Val, “Only if it was a very strong wind and Val was lying down.”

“Were You?” John asks.

No answer.

                It's Someone's Mother, I Hope 

We arrive at the park. There’s a festive crowd; it’s lunchtime and more than one picnic is in progress.

I spot a person my age – grandma. “On duty today?” I inquire. It’s a conversation starter.

“Oh yes,” she says. “Monty, Valerie, no more hiding from me.” She turns to me. “It’s easy to lose them here.”

I agree. “Siblings?” I ask.

“They’re cousins.”

 Her cell phone rings. “Oh, someone’s calling, one of the mothers, I hope,” she says which indicates that this grandma wants to be off-duty and seems to feel it’s beyond her quitting time actually.

 She puts the phone to her ear. “Hi where are you?” she says. Another indication that she’s done – or should be. She hangs up. “OK,” she says, “We’re going.”

 “Have a good one,” is all I say, though I would have liked to have talked more with this person. Something about her manner, the accepted exasperation with a hint of humor that drew me to her. But I will never see her again. A missed opportunity to commiserate.

 Anyway, what time is it? OK it’s 12:15.

                         Reserved Seats Only

Seats are at a premium here, at least, that is, space that is not “reserved” with strategically placed water bottles, hats, or opened books turned over. There are but three aluminum picnic tables, with seating benches on each side.  At one, lunch is in full swing. Mothers fuss with myriad food containers, nudging them here and there across the table top. Enough Mylar balloons for a lift-off are anchored to the legs of another table. I suspect a birthday party.

The third table is relatively vacant so I saunter toward it. Of the two seat benches one is less occupied, empty but for a single half filled water bottle perched in the middle. Not enough, I reason, to reserve the entire bench. I sit down at the near end. 

                          It’s the Pregnancy

A mom approaches, seemingly in pain, her hand on the back of her hip. Sciatica she announces with a groan as she slides onto the opposite end of the bench. She’s obviously hobbled. I glance in her direction. There is a collective sympathetic “Oh,” from nearby moms.

I consider joining the discussion. I know a thing or two about sciatica – back pain etc. I’m 71 – expert on this. I roll over some thoughts – what to say? Another mother offers, “It’s the pregnancy – for sure.”

This brings a chorus of agreement. Pregnancy is the verdict. I exclude myself from the discussion - opt out, no comment.

                 Tip: Don’t Slice the Strawberries

I try to spot the kids. Where’d they go? Oh, there they are. OK, I lower my head, rest my eyes. This is when I notice on the ground, right at my feet, upwards to fifty nicely sliced strawberries, covered with dirt.  It makes me chuckle. Am I laughing at another’s misfortune? I suppose I am.

I try to imagine the scenario.  

Mom – or grand-mom - is up before everyone, in the kitchen dutifully slicing each berry into a shaved quarter.

She is humming softly. A thought enters - Why am I slicing every single berry? Don’t ask- she tells herself - she just wants to, or maybe that they are more likely to be eaten. She, dismisses the thought, continues slicing. Finally, she finishes, packs them, neatly, into a Tupperware container. Kids will like these, she thinks.

 And now this. The strawberries are covered in dirt.

 Seriously I would have picked them up - scooped them right back into the Tupperware, to take home later and wash them. Yes, yes, … don't tell me. I know. Trying to feed one of the children the dropped strawberries, even if re-washed, would go something like this:

 “Euew!! I’m not eating them.” This would be the oldest of her three.

  “You know what? Shut up!” That would be the sweet mother.

 I would love to hear that. The sweeter, the gentler, the more darling the mother the more I like it. It doesn’t sound at all mean, not at all, coming from her – sounds loving even. Why does it make me feel good?

 So how did they get on the ground? I’m betting on her own little Johnny, age 4, wanting one strawberry, yanks at the Tupperware lid as he holds the container against his chest. Mom/Grand-mom does not notice this. She is in the middle of gentle laughter with her contemporaries, catching up on news. Anyway that’s my guess.

 But of course, I don't know if any of this happened, really. I know only that the dirt at my feet is littered with strawberries and that they had been assiduously sliced and intended for someone to eat, which I also know also, did not happen …and never will happen.