Friday, April 19th 2013

Yesterday as I walked to and from campus the heat of an eighty-degree day made a line of sweat form on my hairline and the shirt I was wearing to cling to my skin. The sun I was exposed to caused the bridge of my nose to sunburn a bit. It was as if Pittsburgh decided to skip spring altogether and race head first into summer.

     Today, however, the weather proceeds to surprise the city and bring in temperatures in the low fifties and a light drizzle on and off. I'm sitting on the bench in Baum with my knees close to my chest and the hood of my rain jacket covering my head. My exposed fingers feel the chill in the air, as does my nose. The dramatic change in weather however has not stopped the new visitors in the park who have been tricked into thinking summer was here.

     The last time I visited the park I saw a mourning dove perched in a tree. Today a muted gray dove sits on the rim of the trash can moving lazily to the right. I can't tell if it's a male or a female since I'm not sure if the coloring is different like a cardinal. The dove puffs out its chest like it's had a full meal and then raises its neck long and lean to let out its slow coo. It reminds me of the common loon in a way. The doves call transports me to northern Minnesota as a child lying in bed as the sun entered the open windows of the cabin and the echoed call of the loon on the lake both excited and haunted me. It was a wakeup call for me. The loon, a possible call of danger, separation, and longing. 

     The memory and the consistent cooing of the dove makes me wonder what birds use their calls for? Do higher tones mean different emotions? Are the speeds at which the bird calls play a role in communicating? What is the dove sitting on the trashcan calling out for?  Is the slow coo coo coo coo a longing for summer heat that was promised when the temperature reached above eighty?

         I know I will never know the exact reason behind these calls, but as the drizzling rain falls between the blooming new leaves of the trees I can’t help but let my imagination escape. Maybe a few blocks away another mourning dove hears the call and finds his or her way to Baum. Then the two doves will call together as they chase each other in and out of the tree branches. Then Baum won’t feel so gloomy or empty anymore. 

Friday, April 5th 2013

The robins have returned. I remember only months ago the small flock of them flittering about on the snow and hopping around the branches of the crab apple tree. I sat and watched one robin in particular obsess over something he had found in the snow. Now the snow has melted into the ground making the grass one giant sponge. The treasure the robin had found is lost to the layers of soil beneath the yellow feet of the new flock of robins that have descended on Baum.

            Rust colored breasts freckle the snot colored grass. It’s almost a healthy green, but the ground needs a bit more sunlight and rain until it reaches that deep emerald. Instead of using the crab apple tree as a jungle gym these robins glide along the grass with their beaks towards the ground. With spring here and summer rushing in there is plenty to feast on. I can only imagine the poor larva that poked his head out in anticipation for spring and ended up in the belly of a robin.

            I’m not sure what it is about spring, but it’s one of the noisiest seasons. Winter is quiet and calm. Spring hosts a choir of noises. The robins chirp around the park as the squirrels high in the trees squawk. Between all the chattering a mourning doves familiar coo coo coo repeats several times before I see it sitting on a branch of a Sycamore. I can’t help but laugh when the word ‘twitterpated’ runs through my mind. Baum’s visitors sure seem like they are going through a phase of love with not only each other, but of the sunshine, warm air, and the renewal of spring.

            Pittsburgh’s residents seem to be twitterpating along with nature. On my way to Baum I saw more bikers and walkers in two blocks than I had in four months. I passed by people in different shapes, sizes, and colors of sunglasses and some even wore flip-flops. It seemed like everyone in the city was out enjoying the appearance of the warm weather a sun that had been taking a longer winter vacation than planned. However they weren't necessarily twitterpated by the rest of nature springing to life again.

            As for me, I sit in my usual spot on the bench and twitter pate about the new critters who have joined me in the park. The warm weather and the sunshine are wonderful, but I've never seen the park so alive before. The robins move so quickly along the ground that it's difficult to keep my eyes on just one. It's like watching children at the playground: you can never just watch the one on the slide. You have to also watch the one swinging from the monkey bars or the ones flying higher on the swings. As I watch one robin run with his head down along the grass and then fly up into a tree I hope that with the forecasted rain due at any moment in the city that these critters will be here the next time I venture out.

Friday, March 29th 2013

    The sun that peeks through the intermitted clouds warms my hair as I sit and sketch the purple flowers growing in the garden. I hope soon other colored flowers will spring up through the dirt and join the purple ones. The crab apple tree that the robins flew in and out of earlier this year has sprouted buds. Tiny red tips that soon, hopefully, will bloom into strong fragrant flowers. If the warmer weather and the sun finally appearing are any beginning indications of spring, the blooming is just around the corner.

     When I looked up from my notebook, I noticed someone walking on the walkway through the park. I was surprised at first to see the man with his headphones in and a messenger bag hanging off his right shoulder. No one had been here the several times I had sat on the bench and watched my surroundings. He walked past the bench and didn't stop to see the park around him. I'm not even sure he realized he was in a park with how quickly he passed through. As I returned to my sketching I felt a bit of happiness that Baum received more attention than the ever changing weather and me. It's not a very large park, but it's quiet and if someone were to stop long enough I'm sure they would stay. If the man had taken a moment longer to notice the way the trees guard Baum from outside traffic, or how the sun hits the bench at just the right angle giving you enough sunlight and warmth. Maybe if he had sat down next to me on the bench he would find some hope of spring in the flowers that have been growing for more than a week now.

     But he didn't. 

     For that I am relieved. I find myself very defensive of Baum. After spending several weeks venturing to the park I've become attached. I often think about it as my place. The bench, the garden, the line of trees bordering the park have all become this place I have found comfort in. I know I shouldn't be selfish. I should want to share this place with whoever finds it. They too may share the same feeling of comfort I have felt sitting on this bench in a park beginning to sprout life again.

Thursday, March 21st 2013

           The first sign of spring revealed itself in the form of a small group of flowers. The garden in Baum has been full of dried leaves and yellowed stems of last year’s plants. Today, three tiny purple flowers have sprouted from the dark, moist soil. They look like baby tulips. Five lavender petals curve upward and fan out just enough at the top that I can see hints of gold inside. Holding up each flower head is a stout green stem. Each stem is a rich green closest to the soil and gets lighter in hue. The tip of the stem that holds the petals is completely white like the snow that once covered the top of the soil it now grows from.

            The sight of the flowers brings out a feeling I can’t quite describe. Relief? Maybe hope. I sit back on the bench and close my eyes for a second. The park is just as it is every week: quiet. Today I enjoy the solitude. Any other day I would have been excited to see anyone entering Baum. However today I need the solitude. I need it like I need to feel as if this small group of flowers have sprouted for me. 

           Before entering the park I felt so hollow. Death on the living has way of carving the best parts of you from inside and leaving empty spaces. I wasn’t close with my classmate, but I had sat in the same room as her, learned the same stories, and felt the same urge to put stories down on paper. The news of her death has casted this blanket of sorrow and uncertainty over my peers and my friends. It has not been an easy week to watch these people stare at an empty desk the same way I stared at my grandmother's empty chair in the living room of her home. It has been a week of my hollow spaces echoing their losses. 

          When I look back down at the flowers I can't help but think about what else is buried beneath the soil. Roots of past flowers curled and shriveled and earthworms decayed thinned bodies. Though their no longer living beings on the earth they are still nestled within its soil. They still remain as a piece of this large earth. These purple flowers growing taller in the soil will too serve their purpose and they too will join the plants before them in community beneath the soil.

     The new buds on the tips of the trees branches will soon join the flowers in their arrival. Soon green leaves of different shapes and sizes will shade the park and these flowers from the hot summer sun. Come winter the leaves will brown and migrate towards the ground. The flowers will wilt too, no doubt. They will shrink back into the soil and let the brown leaves cover them like a warm blanket. For now the flowers are here, alive, and filling those empty spaces with the promise of life beyond the soil. 

Wednesday, March 6th 2013

     The coffee shop on campus was quieter than most Wednesday mornings. The line to get my coffee wasn't long or nearly out the door as it is around nine o' clock. I checked my watch as I stood in line. For once I wouldn't be walking into class with a minute to spare.
     "Can you believe the snow?" A girl behind me asked her friend.
     "No. I thought for sure class would be canceled. I'm actually mad at my professor for making me come to class with all this snow."
     I tried to hold in a snort. If only they knew what other parts of the country were dealing with snow-wise. Minnesota was hit with close to 18" in less than twelve hours. What Pittsburgh accumulated over night was like the kiddie pool of snowstorms.
     "I heard Pitt Johnstown is closed."
     "Really? Ugh. That's unfair."
     I rolled my eyes, ordered my coffee, and bolted out of the coffee shop.
     Class was no better. The few who managed to show up complained about how difficult it was to walk around campus in the wet, heavy snow. There were concerns about if facilities would salt before the afternoon or how they were so tired of winter weather.
     "It's so cold my car had trouble starting. I was almost late for class."
     "I'm so tired of snow."
     "I need it to be spring. I hate winter."
      All the complaining flew around every corner of campus that I was starting to become irate. In the middle of class as I stared out of the window, through the blinds, I imagined myself standing in the middle of the quad on campus. "Night on Bald Mountain" would narrate as I cast the biggest snowstorm Pittsburgh would ever see, all with the flick of my wrist. I would give everyone a real reason to complain about the snow. Four inches was nothing to make such a fuss over. Instead of staying on campus to do homework like I had planned, I left. I couldn't take another moment of negative attitude about the weather.
     Instead, I went to Baum.
     It had been the best decision. I needed a place where it was quiet so I could enjoy the fresh coat of snow. I knew Baum would provide the solitude I so desperately needed. When I stepped into the parklet I immediately felt my shoulders relax. Besides the crunch of my boots on the snow, Baum was quiet. I threw my backpack on the bench and brushed off a bit of snow so I could sit.
     With my back against the bench I looked up at the tree branches. Each branch was covered in clean, white snow. On certain parts of the branches there was a small mound of snow. As a whole the mounds on the branches of all the trees reminded me of how dew looks on the lines of a spider's web. Sometimes those mounds became too heavy for the branch. The limb would crack and the snow would fall like a curtain.
     After some time, I'm not sure how long, the sun peeked through the clouds and the most magical thing happened. The films of light broke through the trees and created this layer of sparkle on the snow. Baum seemed to light up and come alive. I watched as more snow cascaded from the trees and sparkle on it's way down to the ground.
     Suffering through a morning full of complaining was worth seeing snow in such a light. For a moment I wondered if the two friends in the coffee shop or my classmates had stopped to enjoy such beautiful snow? Maybe they would have felt differently about their walk to class or their ride to campus. Perhaps they too would have stopped for a moment, in the quiet, and experienced the snow's final call before springs inevitable arrival.
   

Tuesday, February 26th, 2013

It’s raining again. I’ve lost count the number of days the sky has been colored in grey swirls and the city showered in a spectrum of precipitation. Freezing rain, sleet, and heavy wet snow. This weather is famous in Pittsburgh. Instead of calling it the city of bridges we should call it city of endless overcast.  On a typical rainy day I just pull on my black rubber rain boots, open my umbrella, and try my best to stay dry. I don’t think much of the rain. I’m not one for thinking about how different rain makes everything look, smell, feel, and sound.

            On the bench in the middle of Baum the rain has created a unique blend of noise that it becomes the only thing I can concentrate on. Droplets plop against the cement path cutting through the park. It’s the loudest sound of the group. On the bark of the trees it’s a lighter noise. A faint tip tip tip. It’s consistent and much more pleasant than the ting of the rain hitting the garbage can behind me.

            Below my rain boots is the grass. Small beads of rain cling to some of the blades and a puddle has begun to form. I can’t gather a specific sound from my height so I set my umbrella down over my notebook and slide off the bench to the grass. The water seeps through the knees of my jeans and adds to the chill already settled in my body. I plant my palms in the grass, feel each blade squish and cave under my weight. I put my ear close to the ground and hold my position. I realize that I must look crazy, but I want to know the sound the rain makes on the grass. I want to catalogue it in my memory and to know every inch of Baum in every type of season or weather. That for if in a years time I move away I’ll be able to have the most distinct memory of this place they way I have with every corner of Minnesota. To be able to recall this moment wherever I end up.

            I can’t tell at first if the rain on the grass even makes a sound. The plops, tips, and tings seem to leave very little room in my ear canal for any other sound. Behind me a car drives by and I hear the woosh the tires make in the puddle-ridden street. I lean my head even closer to the ground and wait. I know the sound will come if I let it. When it does I can think of only one other sound in comparison: eyelashes fanning across a pillowcase. Sweep . . . sweep . . . sweep. It’s a sound so relaxing that I feel as if I could rest my head on the swamp like ground and fall asleep. Descend gently into sleep with the plops and the tips, and the tings, and the sweeps of rain falling in Baum. 

Friday, February 15th 2013

They say Paul Bunyan and Babe the blue ox carved the ten thousand lakes from their travels during a blizzard. Each lake a giant hole from Babe’s hooves or Paul’s boots. Scientifically the Great Lakes and all ten thousand in Minnesota were not really crafted by the giant duo’s travels, but I find it’s more enjoyable to imagine that landscape is formed by such folklore.

            Baum is full of puddles today. The snow has melted and a short burst of rain has left the mucus colored grass littered with puddles. I tried to find a place dry enough for me to sit, but every inch of the small park is wet and muddy. I walk around the grass a bit. My rain boots ‘splosh’ and ‘splish’ with each step. I walk around in a circle as the repeating sound trances me and then I am no longer twenty-four, but ten. I am not 5’9”, but eleven feet tall. I tower over the trees and my boot-covered feet are the size of a small house. With each step I begin to create the puddles and dips in Baum’s grass. I am the myth they will talk about when I am gone. My travels will imprint this place, this landscape.

My swampy imagination seizes when a car drives by and pulls me out of its thick layers. It is as if I have drunk that glass bottle labeled “reality” and shrink back to normal size. I laugh at myself for a moment and then decide to sit down and write. 

There has been a change in weather and I welcome it. I know it won’t stay long. Pittsburgh is notorious for it’s fickle weather. Rain one hour, snow the next, and if we’re lucky a bit of sun. Today it’s cloudy, but hasn’t rained yet. There’s always a chance it will within the next hour.

            Without the fresh coat of snow Baum looks and feels sleepy. The grass isn’t an emerald green or blowing in the wind. The branches of the trees are bare and the plants in the small garden are dried, tan, and feel crispy like the peelings of a dried ear of corn. Even the murky grey sky seemed to add a feeling of drowsiness to the park. I become anxious thinking about a season change and what will transpire in Baum when springs kiss awakens the landscape.