My View From the Hospital Window by Bob Kaufman

I have a Bachelor of Science in physics with a minor in math from an accredited university.  I hold a certificate of aeronautical rating from the United States Air Force, which, if it isn't the best pilot training institution in the world, it is second only to the United States Navy. I have my own opinion on that, but that’s another story.  I proudly wore the coveted wings on my uniform for five years. I hold a Master of Business Administration degree.  And, I earned an advanced doctorate degree in the life of Bob Kaufman.  All of that qualifies me to talk about little else than myself, and absolutely nobody else should feel compelled to listen.  I suspect, however, that some of my experience, understanding, and beliefs about life might find a friendly audience in one or two other folks.

This morning, July 26, 2012,(1) I gazed out the window of the sixth floor of my sweetheart's hospital room, where she lay suffering from a serious traffic accident that happened three days earlier.  I noticed the intricate arrangement of pipes, conduits, and other mechanical devices on the roof of one of the lower sections of the hospital.  The scene presented all the tell-tale signs of intelligent, man-made design: straight lines, consistent curves, right angles, and such - those geometric shapes you rarely see, if ever, in nature.

Near the horizon, this side of Mummy Mountain in Phoenix/Scottsdale, a crane was in motion, moving other objects with lines, consistent curves, and right angles in the construction of some other object of intelligent design.  Without a doubt, the buildings I observed could not have arrived at their present form without forethought and effort of intelligent creatures.  Although the complex arrangement of the pipes and conduits caused me to wonder if sufficient forethought had been given to the project and if a simpler arrangement might have been possible.  It looked more like a house that had been designed and built, and then the owner realized something else was needed, something he had not anticipated in the beginning.  So, an addition was made, and then another, and another, and another.... 

In the process of earning that BS degree over forty years ago, I was exposed briefly to a very new field of study called Nuclear Magnetic Resonance (NMR).(2) Yesterday, a very skilled and knowledgeable surgeon shared with me images captured by Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI). Those images showing an interactive, three-dimensional view of my wife's broken rib cage, are the evolution of over forty years of study and practice applied to the then infantile field of NMR.

Last night I viewed a short section of a video featuring another knowledgeable and wise person discussing the intricate system that transmits sound waves to the human brain.  With vibrations so small as to be dwarfed by the dimensions of an atom, the ear drum, first in line in that intricate system, transmits those waves to the brain.  From this, if everything is functioning as designed, we can hear the velvet sounds of a cello in an orchestra playing a masterful composition, and we can distinguish that sound from the cry of a newborn baby, constructed, by the way, in only nine month’s time. I can ramble on aloud, and if you have heard my voice before, you can distinguish it from the thousands of others you have heard. Truly it is a remarkable system, part of that larger conglomerate of systems we call human.

If I recall correctly, before my BS, the commonly held astronomical belief was that the universe was static.  Sometime after that, something exploded with a bang and the universe began to move.  But there wasn't enough energy in that explosion to keep things moving apart forever and scientists said eventually it all would implode and maybe start all over again.  No one knows for certain what was going on before the bang, what caused it in the first place, and what will happen when everything collapses.  That last question is irrelevant now because, I think, the current theory is that everything is accelerating away from everything else and there is insufficient force at work to bring it all back together.  Eventually, if man doesn't fall victim to some other catastrophe, when he gazes into the heavens at night, he will see only black because the stars and galaxies will have moved so far away that their light will no longer reach the earth.  I have no idea what the theory is about the moon in this scenario, so maybe there will still be romance and horror stories about what happens to some people when the moon is full.

I am subject to correction on that last paragraph because, for the past forty years, my study of science has been limited to things I have seen on the likes of the Discovery Channel. And, I wrote all of that from my memory which is getting weaker as I write.  Finally, it could happen that future scientists will learn something new that will change the current theories, whatever they really are.

So, as I write, Doctor Hu is performing surgery (he pronounced it "hue" like having to do with color, not "who" like the fictional British TV character who travels the universe in a telephone booth). His dedication to the science of medicine gives me a good deal of comfort and a great deal of gratitude. He is working to repair my sweetheart's ribs so that they will move without causing great pain, so that her chest will expand sufficiently to cause air to reach the lower limits of her lung, so that it will function properly and not become diseased further, thus allowing her to rise from her bed of pain to continue to live, love, and bless the lives of everyone who is fortunate to cross her path.

All of this is to say that my nearly sixty-four years of earning all the credentials, outlined earlier, convince me that there is no way that all of this is an accident of nature and not an act of design and construction by someone very intelligent.  I do not dispute the bang theory.  I simply do not know, but certainly would like to know more about how it all happened.   Some will call this blind faith.  I don't care about that.  I do not, and never will accept the notion that mankind evolved from a single-cell in some primordial soup somewhere millions of years ago when the right combination of protein molecules and energy happened to come together in a collision in time and space.  The cello convinces me otherwise. Although, surprisingly, that description fits how each individual was and is created, but the time required for that process is measured only in months.  Equally unacceptable to me is the idea that over eons of time these cells learned by endless trial and error how to form themselves into all the systems necessary for sustaining the myriad of organisms that inhabit this universe.

I love the 1994 movie IQ, with Tim Robbins, Meg Ryan and Walter Matthau playing the part of Albert Einstein.  I know it's a chick flick.  So what? At one point, Einstein and a few of his old cronies are walking with Edward Walters, a simple garage mechanic with a fascination for science, played by Robbins.  One of the old scientists asks Edward if he thinks they will ever discover intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.  He responded, "They're still looking for intelligent life here on earth."

For a few minutes today, I observed two men working at one of the junction boxes on a rooftop below my window. From the 6th floor they looked like nano-probes moving about affecting repairs.  Obviously, they were working to ensure the hospital systems continue to work properly.  I will concede that there really is intelligent life on earth, citing as evidence those systems the "mano-probes" were repairing.  Such mechanical systems, placed on the roof by design and human effort, not by accident, pale in comparison to the complex and marvelous systems of the mano-probes themselves. Simple logic, another of the attributes of intelligence, tells me that to believe intelligent man created the hospital but man himself is an accident of nature, is silly.

The famous British astronomer, Sir Arthur Eddington, said "the more we know about the universe, the less it looks like a great machine and the more it looks like a great thought."(3) I accept that thought without reservation.

The surgery was a success.  I think Dr. Hu is more artist than scientist. Now we are hoping that these repairs will allow her body to heal itself. Time will tell. Meanwhile we continue to pray for her recovery.

You may wish to view a beautifully produced video entitled "Our Divine Creator". It captures my views precisely: Our Divine Creator

(1) July 26 has become an important date on my calendar. On July 26, 1971, Lt. William J. Stone, my Undergraduate Pilot Training classmate was killed in a crash in the Superstition Mountains. On the same day as this story, July 26, 2012, as I was driving home on the 101 freeway, I received a call from my high school classmate Frank Buerger. He informed me that our classmate and good friend Pete Thill had passed away earlier that day.

(2) Not wishing to draw too much attention to my obsessive compulsiveness, I must say “nuclear” is properly pronounced nu-CLE-ar, not nu-CU-lar ... but that's another story.

(3) Quoted by John Lewis, former Professor of Planetary Sciences at the University of Arizona, and MIT. Note: My cursory research indicates this quote actually may be paraphrased from a quote by Sir James Jeans: “The stream of human knowledge is heading towards a non-mechanical reality. The universe begins to look more like a great thought than a great machine. Mind no longer appears to be an accidental intruder into the realm of matter. We are beginning to suspect that we ought rather to hail it as the creator and governor of this realm.” — Sir James Jeans, (1877-1946), English physicist, astronomer, and mathematician, The Mysterious Universe (1930), 137.

I've Seen That Smile Somewhere Before by Bob Kaufman

Claire Johnson Senior Picture, 1967

Once, long ago, before I was young - indeed, even before time, I knew her and loved her!

Then, as I was about to leave that existence, Mother assured me: "Everything will be alright."

It was as if she was sending me off to my first day of school.

I imagine she licked her fingers, as mothers do, and slicked my hair, tugged at my belt to straighten my shirt. She looked, and looked once more to be certain I had my sack lunch in hand. Then, perceiving my reticence, she scooted me out the door before I could object.

So, I departed, as we all did one by one, into The Great Agon. 1

     "Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
     seeking to find the old familiar faces", Charles Lamb wrote. 2

The Old Familiar Faces by Charles Lamb

That idea resonates with me.

It seemed part of my very soul when I first heard it not long ago.
I felt something expand within.
It was as the sound of angelic harmony – triads, and more complex chords, I have often heard, especially when the MCO women sing in three or four, or even more parts.

It is like an “arrival” chord. One that just feels right – that moment of anticipated resolution in the music, following a dramatic, suspenseful crescendo. I have felt similar beauties before - fulfillment of the promise that truth shall "distill upon thy soul as the dews from heaven." 3

Suddenly, I wished I had read more in the previous seven decades of my life. If I had, that truth might have drifted my way long before now.

"Where had I seen them, those familiar faces?", I thought.
"Certainly not here.”
“I have sought them as long as I can remember - since I was very young - even before that."

Their familiarity precedes time.

"If not here, then where?" I asked aloud.
(My thoughts, alone, could not contain that question.)

Spring 1968

Not the first, but my most memorable moment finding a familiar face, was the instant hers passed before mine, slightly lower, as five foot four is to just under six feet, not eighteen inches away, as close as two people can be within a single doorway without grazing against one another. I felt the faint breeze on my forearm as she passed by - all too quickly it seemed. Absent was the discomfort of a violation of personal space! Indeed, this was a most-welcome intrusion.

Though more than half a century ago, the image of that moment is unfaded.

Even if I close my eyes really tight, clench my fists, and think really hard, I cannot recall another familiar-face moment as vivid as that one, although, there have been many, many more.

Curious. Most have involved music, I think, but that's another story.
Or maybe it is this one.
My mind is yet unsettled on that point.

Spring 1968, Merrill Hall

Orson F. Whitney wrote: "More than once on hearing a noble sentiment expressed though unable to recall that I’d ever heard of it until then, I found myself in sympathy with it, and felt as if I had always known it. The same is true with some strains of music; they are like echoes of eternity. I do not assert pre-acquaintance in all such cases, but as one thought suggests another, these queries arise in the mind." 4

We Lived With God

Perhaps that is why I have found many familiar faces while engaged in singing music that also has a familiar echo. It is more than simple coincidence.

Wordsworth wrote:
    "Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

    Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
    And, even with something of a mother's mind,
    And no unworthy aim,
    The homely nurse doth all she can
    To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
    Forget the glories he hath known,
    And that imperial palace whence he came." 5

W.W. Gibson wrote of ... "fresh moments that live again in remembrance - unfaded."

Living "again in remembrance" seems to imply a sense of deja-vu, but the passing of that angel before my eyes did not produce such a feeling. Deja vu is near complete forgetfulness...but not quite. Then, when it quietly, almost imperceptibly, drifts back into your consciousness, you feel you've been there before, but you cannot quite account for when or where.

No.
That wasn't it.

The feeling I had, as my heart leapt within, was complete remembrance and reunion. Unawares, I had been searching for her all along, but didn’t know where she had gone! Then I felt, just for an instant, that mother must have added, probably as an afterthought, as she gently kissed my forehead: "Don't worry. You will find her.”

Suddenly, there she was!
Unannounced!
Such an entrance should have been preceded by great pomp and circumstance!

Spring 1968, Together at Last

I was tongue-tied. 6
I tried but couldn't speak.
I didn't even know her name!

"Wie heißen?" (Literally, "How are you called?" – She always liked when I spoke German. I haven’t done it much in the eons since that September – 1967.)
The perfect greeting realized only now, half a century too late!
(Perhaps that eight-month gap between that moment and our first formal date might have been eliminated. Oh, but then, without the suspension, the “arrival” cannot be as sweet!)

Claire and Kristi, Summer 1970

Not quite a year later, on a warm summer afternoon - as we sat in the shade of the pine trees on the lawn where I once played imaginary baseball games on my knees, bouncing a soft ball against the sidewalk and fireplace at my childhood home - we talked of love and learned that we both had wished that the other would have come and sat nearby so we could talk. But she went to one side of the room, and I to the other. Gladly the distance of that separation would eventually disappear.

How could I not know her name? Earth might cause one to forget his former palatial home, but the face of eternal love is indelible! I have always had difficulty putting names to faces and remembering them for very long. I guess it’s just me.

     “I [had] seen that smile somewhere before.
     “Sometime.
     “Who can be certain when?
     “But, if I knew [her] then, it's strange I can't remember.
     “Feelings come so very strong, like we’ve known each other oh so long! 7

The Circle of Our Love

Helene Cardona wrote: 8

     To Kitty, Who Loved the Sea and Somerset Maugham

    For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
    it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
    ―E.E. Cummings

     The angel who smells of my childhood
     My mother, piano and oboe
     Whose face the icon reflects
     Auburn hair like a Modigliani
     Eyes the color of rain
     Light caught by surprise
     Whose presence the absence reveals
     Whose laughter burns snow
     Whose warm breath I breathed
     This morning as I woke
     The scent of gardenias whispering
     I never left you

Truly, she never left me!

Either we knew each other in a pre-mortal realm or I am a hopeless romantic.

I prefer both. 9



Footnotes:

1 According to Wikipedia, Agon is an ancient Greek term for a conflict, struggle or contest. This could be a contest in athletics, in chariot or horse racing, or in music or literature at a public festival in ancient Greece. Agon is the word-forming element in 'agony', explaining the concept of agon(y) in tragedy by its fundamental characters, the protagonist and antagonist.

Wikipedia definition of agon 

2 “The Old Familiar Faces”, by Charles Lamb
3 Doctrine and Covenants 121:45
4 Quoted in "Jesus of Nazareth" Vol. 2, by Truman Madsen
5 “Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”, by William Wordsworth - 1770-1850]
6 Like the young man in “Montage from How Sweet It Is”
"Then I knew that you knew that I knew that....
(This song became ours that bright and wonderful spring of 1968...but that's another story.)

7 “The Circle of our Love”, from “Saturday’s Warrior”, by Douglass Stewart and Lex de Azevedo
8 “Life in Suspension / La Vie Suspendue”m by Helene Cardona
9 O My Father, text: Eliza R. Snow, 1804-1887, verse 3:
      I had learned to call thee Father,
      Thru thy Spirit from on high,
      But, until the key of knowledge was restored,
      I knew not why.
      In the heav'ns are parents single?
      No, the thought makes reason stare!
      Truth is reason; truth eternal
      Tells me I've a mother there.

The Summer of My Discontent! by Bob Kaufman

Stan Ghidossi's Wood Pile 2019

My friend, Stan Ghidossi, posted this picture on Facebook, November 16, 2019. Reading his post took my mind back to “The Summer of My Discontent!”

I remember vividly the summer, probably 1964 or '65, when Dad ordered a truckload of logs delivered to the vacant lot across the gully from our house. It was my task to turn the logs into firewood for the coming winter, load the finished product into the bed of Dad's '56 Chevy pickup, and transport the load to the woodpile in our front yard. These were not Lincoln Logs. At the big end, some were about four feet in diameter, certainly longer than the 36" guide bar of Dad's biggest chainsaw. Like slicing a carrot, I cut those logs into pieces short enough to fit our fireplace. No summer before nor since have I been so intimately acquainted with a chainsaw as I was then. Perhaps a close second was a few years earlier, 1958 I think, when lightning struck and destroyed the big tree on the corner of Plumas and Pine Streets...but that's another story.

Dad Sawing the Tree
Destroyed by Lightning

(Oh heck! Why not?)

When that lightning bolt jolted into my life, shattering parts of that ill-fated tree and cutting a spiral rift from top to bottom, I was at the street corner by the telephone office, just a short diagonal city block away, returning from a trek to Leonard's Market, toting groceries in a paper bag that felt like it could not hold intact for one more block's walk in the deluge. I think I may have sought shelter from the rain, pausing momentarily under the veranda at the entrance to the office. You know how a paper grocery bag silently rips apart when it gets wet, especially when it is full of bottled or canned goods? Well...how that wet paper bag didn't disintegrate, scattering the groceries all over the phone office parking lot and shattering the bottles, when I jumped, is a mystery. I do not remember having to break into my piggy bank for funds to replace the groceries, so it is possible that Marge had double-bagged them to ensure a successful delivery.

Mom Helped

When the time came to make firewood from that tree, I was too young to be trusted with running the chainsaw, so my duties were confined to gathering, loading, and unloading the log disks, and splitting them into fuel. There must be a mountain-dweller’s name for those log disks, but I’ve lived in the desert now for nearly a half century, so if there is one, it has floated away from my mental archive like the smoke from all those logs I made into firewood and burned in the old fireplace.

Both summers of my discontent I found myself wishing that Dad would buy one of those gas-powered log-splitters to make my life easier, something he did, finally, after I had migrated to the desert but too late for me to get any pleasure from running it. Actually, it is good that he didn’t buy that work saver. If he had, I would have remained a Casper Milquetoast, never having completed the physical training I needed to become the football superstar I was that fall! Nevertheless, those pre-log-splitter summers were my opportunity to learn that I NEVER wanted to make my living using a sledgehammer and wedges!

(Truthfully, by Thanksgiving that year, I had also learned I wasn't going to earn a living on the gridiron either.)

Dad Posing, I Think

Despite the difficulty of such hard labor, it is strange how the memory of the sights, sounds, and smells of making firewood in that vacant, sagebrush-covered lot, are pleasant to me, so many years agone. Pining for the aroma of sawdust and fresh-cut chips of Douglas fir ejected amidst the smoke exhaust of the chain saw; the wood pitch that stuck to everything attracting dirt and turning black; the clink of the sledgehammer hitting the wedge; the crackling of the wood fibers ripping apart as the log splits; the soft scent of the sagebrush, dampened by a gentle rain the night before; all make me wish, for a moment at least, to return to the mountains!

Perhaps again, in June, I shall return, roll up my sleeves and pant legs, and wade in Gold Lake one more time.

Dear Bugs, where were you during The Summer of My Discontent?

Firewood Was a Basic Necessity!

A Walk in the Park With Puppy, January 30, 2010 by Bob Kaufman

There is beauty all around when you have a puppy!

Puppy lived with us for 5,265 days – Mother’s Day, May 15, 2005 to today, October 14, 2019. This is just a glimpse back at one of those days:

Spock, Killer, Puppy in His Younger Days

Puppy and I went for a walk just before sunset today, January 30, 2010. It has been a week since the
big rain. We had a tiny bit this week, but not much really. The ground is already dry in most places, but you can see where the water had been standing. Home plate at the park still had some puddles of water but they'll probably be playing games there in a week or two. A couple of trees were blown over by the wind. Workers have cleared the fallen trees from the sidewalk but haven't removed the debris yet. It's amazing how much the ground dries up in just a week. Ours and several other houses lost some shingles in the wind. Ours is not as bad as some, but still about 20 or so need to be replaced, but I've been compensated for the extra work of repairing the roof.

The pile of mulberry leaves that had accumulated at the foot of the tree has gone with the wind. The air was a little chilly, but still nice - mid 60's I'd guess. I had to wear a long-sleeved shirt. The park was buzzing with people. There were at least three groups celebrating birthdays or some other special event. In the basin there was a large group throwing footballs and such. They had tables set up I think with food but I'm not sure. I wondered who they were.

Around the back there was a birthday party for sure. The party-goers had those big pans like you see in a cafeteria to keep food warm. I don't know what they were eating, but it smelled good. The kids were playing in one of those inflatable playrooms. I wished I was a kid again. We didn't have things like that in the 50's. We had to use our imagination more. The playground was full of parents and children on swings and other equipment. As we passed the playground a woman was taking her small daughter to the bathroom. The girl asked, "Does your dog bite?" I thought about Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther when I said "No"...as she began to pet him. Luckily, he just sniffed her feet.

I saw at least 30 airplanes overhead as we walked. I sighed every time. Some were making contrails, others were lower. They were heading in every direction.

Randall, our neighbor, was walking south by the pool wearing his safari hat while we were heading east. I saw him, he saw us. But puppy was too busy sniffing the ground and peeing on bushes to notice. Good thing because he would have barked up a storm. Twice tonight he was on the arm of the couch facing the door barking constantly. There was nothing outside, I opened the door so he could see. Then I realized that a book of Arizona Parks was sitting on the end table. Randall brought it by this morning for me to look at. I don't know why Puppy has it in for Randall, but he does. Every time we pass his house, Puppy runs to the end of the leash barking like crazy and then chokes himself and has to cough to clear his throat. He settles down after we pass by.

In the park there was a father and four boys playing football. The father was the QB. Two boys went out for a pass and two others were defending. The father threw a long pass which was caught by one of boys and then raised both hands pointing to the sky signaling a touchdown and victory! He looked just like Brett Favre (I bet this dad knows how to pronounce his own name, but that’s another story). Another group of adults and children were playing a bean bag toss game near the ramada. They cheered when someone apparently made a really good shot.

When we got back to the house, our shadows were on the neighbor's house. This only happens for a week or so about a month on either side of Dec 21 when the sun is in the right position in the southern sky near sunset. Puppy saw the shadows, ran toward the house and barked at them. By the time I got my camera, the sun had dropped partly below the houses to the west and I couldn't see puppy's shadow any more so I had to pick him up.

Puppy's Last Walk in the Park, October 16, 2019 by Bob Kaufman

Puppy and I went for a walk today, October 16, 2019. This was unlike the hundreds of other walks we took around Arrowhead Park in the past. Puppy went home two days ago.

Puppy's Doggy Tags

Today, I felt drawn to the idea to carry his dog tags around the long route we once walked at a brisk pace, but which we had to abandon several years ago because of his advancing age, declining energy, and quivering legs. Gradually we had cut back - first eliminating the circuit around the baseball fields, then the loop around the retention basin until all that he could bear was to walk around the pool and playground, and just barely so. Still, four days ago, our last Saturday morning walk, took longer than those early walks around the entire park.

Watch Out For That Drain!

Missing today were the plastic grocery bags I would carry to pick up puppy surprises he usually left in the dirt under a large cottonwood tree just past the northwest corner of the fenced-off Arrowhead Pool. Gone was my concern as we passed the gutter with openings that drain runoff water into the retention basin. Those drains were quite large enough to swallow even an overweight Long-haired Chihuahua. Also missing was the tinkling of his tags as they would do when he jumped the curb, or when he trotted along, constantly pulling at the leash, but more recently, just waddled along our trail…and, of course, missing was the incessant barking as we passed Randall’s house, which we did twice on every walk. I don’t think Randall knows yet it is safe to visit us again.

It has been twenty-three days since the big rain – the full measure of the summer monsoon on West Tyson Street that was confined to thirty minutes on September 23 between 5:00 and 5:30 a.m. I heard this was the fifth worst monsoon on record. Prior to 2008, the beginning of the Arizona Monsoon was determined to be when the average dew point temperature was 55 degrees or higher for three consecutive days. But then some important people determined that it would begin on June 15 and end on September 30. Too bad they cannot predict the weather as well as they seem to think they can control it simply with an edict. Actually...that isn't fair. They have become much better at forecasting than the stereotype given them in times past.

Arrowhead Meadows Water Retention Basin
And the Lower Trail

The pathways around the park were dry today. The trees and grass looked healthy, but somehow the color was not as vivid as I remember from past walks. The park looked tidier than a month or two ago. Branches from several decaying cottonwood trees had fallen to the ground in the summer winds, but recently, workers have been busy cleaning up and it looked good.

The pile of mulberry leaves in our front yard is just a memory. We lost that tree five years ago. Grandpa doesn’t have leaves anymore. Little Tommi, our newest granddaughter, born just a couple months ago, will never know the fun the older kids knew playing in Grandpa's leaves – and sadly, she will never know Grandpa's Puppy.

Arrowhead Pool Digital Timer

Today is Wednesday. Fall break is over and schools are back in session. Nobody was playing football in the basin, no umpire yelled "Batter Up!" on any of the four diamonds, the pickleball and tennis courts were silent, and there was no splashing, nobody taking laps in the pool, no divers. The pool was full of water but empty of swimmers, although the digital lap timer on the wall was ticking away as it has been 24/7 for as long as I can remember. One day maybe someone will repair the display so that the numbers will be readable again. Seems like missing lines that define the numbers is a common problem on scoreboards and clocks such as the one at the pool. Makes me wonder: “Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?"

A Party at the Ramada

Homeless Man Napping on the Grass

The park wasn’t completely silent. A homeless man was asleep on the grass in the shade of a large mulberry tree, with his bicycle and a bundle close beside him. If he was snoring, though, I was too far away to hear him. In the early years, Puppy would have heard him. A small group of party-goers was celebrating under one of the ramadas. From a distance I could see that food was involved and there were decorations on the tables, but no balloons. I was curious what food had been prepared – not sure if it was a late breakfast or early lunch. Must have been a brunch. Since my smeller is no longer functioning, I could not get a whiff of what they were having. It isn’t a total loss. I can still taste sweet and salty.

A city parks worker was washing down the tennis courts with a hose and a middle-aged man and woman appeared to have discovered the courts for the first time. They walked inside the gate to check it out but they were not dressed to play. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I had the impression they thought of coming back when they were dressed differently. Thinking they looked middle-aged brought to my mind the episode of “Happy Days” when Howard Cunningham turned fifty and was finally "middle-aged", according to The Fonz…but that’s another story.

Another man in his fifties, I’d guess, passed by me from behind at a brisk pace. He was wearing shorts and ear buds and appeared to be serious about fitness. A young woman wearing wrap-around dark glasses, a black hoodie, and headphones walked within two feet of me from the opposite direction. With her head slightly bowed and her cell phone in the familiar vertical position peculiar to this day and age, she did not respond when I said “good morning” … and she never looked up. Lucky for her Killer wasn’t there to bark her leg off.

The Playground

At the playground, three young mothers were pushing some little ones in the swings and a few other children were playing under the canopy. A man was watching another child on the slide. Usually one of those little ones at the swings would scamper across the wood chips covering the play area and want to pet Puppy. Or else, they would appear interested but reticent, holding on to mommy's leg - but today I doubt they even noticed when we passed by. Only the usual sounds were floating in the gentle breeze – the delightful melodies of children at play. Missing were their curious questions or exclamations:

“Does your dog bite?”
“Oh, mommy, look at the cute puppy!”

The Walk Between the Pool and Tennis and Pickleball Courts

“Can I pet your dog?”
“I like your dog.”
“What’s his name?”

To the last one, I always answered: “His name is Spock, like the pointy-eared guy on Star Trek, but I call him Puppy, or Killer when I want to scare someone.” That was usually followed by: “Oh, how cute”, but only if I left off the Killer part. The name thing is another story, and I have already written part of it.

Artist's Canvas

All around the park, there were signs of life but little other activity. The old cottonwood tree by the playground still displays the image of a dancer, quite skillfully drawn by an unknown artist who, in my humble opinion, definitely has a gift. It hasn’t been there long – maybe since the beginning of summer, but not much longer. A couple other irreverent artists have recently tagged the sidewalk nearby, and possibly a budding Degas or Da Vinci have recently used the sidewalk near the east baseball field as a canvas for their chalk drawings. But then again, it just might have been a couple of youngsters who came to watch a T-Ball game last weekend.

Remnants of the concrete mile-markers from Andrew Van Allen’s Eagle Project of 1993 are still standing along the course around the scarcely-used water retention basin. I’m relying on a fading memory for that date. The markers have weathered significantly in twenty-six years and probably won’t survive to the age of Stonehenge, or even Manhattanhenge, but they will remain awhile longer as a monument to a young man’s diligent efforts to earn scouting’s highest award.  The city has since upgraded the Lower Path and installed new ramadas and light poles around the basin.

Andrew Van Allen's Eagle Project
Mileage Marker

Strategically posted signs clearly outline the rules for using the park. By the entrance to the third base side of the east field, the signs clearly warned: “NO dogs allowed on ball fields” and “No metal cleats on mound”. I was wearing my Sketchers, and there was nothing posted anywhere prohibiting dog tags on the field. I think there should have been a sign saying: “Put your blasted sunflower seed shells in the trash, SLOB!” But there wasn’t one of those signs either.

No Dogs Allowed

Close to the pool on Erie Street, the trimmed Mexican Petunia bush has grown a bit since Puppy spent nearly two minutes sniffing around it Saturday morning. I think it was his way of catching a breather. Alone, I crossed the completely unshaded parking lot where I often would pick him up and carry him if he was too tired or if it was too hot.

Doggy Tags Permitted

Looking both ways out of a long-established habit I crossed the street and headed home. Saturday, a considerate motorist had slowed even more than the Speed Humps signs suggest allowing us safe crossing. Today the street was vacant. Across the street, I noticed again some trash in the oleander bushes by the corner house. Park visitors seem to dump there a lot. I have often thought to get one of those long grabby thingy’s and some plastic gloves and use Puppy’s unused plastic grocery bag (I always carried two), to pick up the trash, but never seem to think about it except when I pass by.

On the home stretch, I saw four pigeons perched atop the street light. As I drew closer I made my normal loud whishing sound and waved my arms to scare them off. Still, the sidewalk is always a mess for me to clean. I would prefer scooping doggy doo in the back yard. But that’s gone too.

At the threshold to the front door, Saturday he paused as he always did for the last few years, getting ready to make the jump into the living room. As he did, I always said “Good Boy!”, and gave him a treat after removing his leash. I sure do miss that!

The Puppy Song

The Pickleball Court

Arrowhead Pool

The Dancer

Once upon a time, we would continue straight ahead at this intersection.
Lately, we would turn left, greatly shortening our walk.

Dogs Are Welcome

The Hot Parking Lot

Erie Street East

Erie Street West

Mexican Petunias by the Pool

Puppy's Dumping Ground on the Right

Slow Down for Speed Humps (and Puppy)

The Home Stretch

Pigeons

Puppy's Dog Tags and Walking Collar