Panorama of a Spring Day

I had the idea for this next story on the first warm day of the year.  We were at the park playing pickleball when I walked the little ones over to the playground.  I smiled as I observed so many people out doing so many different things!  Spring days bring everyone out of their homes.  

I don’t know what genre this story fits into.  It’s not creative non-fiction because it is far too much fiction for that.   Quite a bit of this is based in truth, but I’ll let you decide what you think is real or not.  

So for now, enjoy my “inspired by” story of a warm spring day in the Cambridge City Park. 

Cambridge, Ohio is nestled in the foothills of Appalachia.  Two major highways intersect right next to it so we get all the benefits of having plenty of restaurants for travelers to stop at, but still have downtown and residential areas that remain quaint and small.

We have a main street called Wheeling Ave. It houses the cute antique shops and coffee bars and a long-standing bakery.  And just a few blocks north, a short walk through the quiet neighborhoods, is the city park.  A vast recreation area that’s our version of Central Park.

I live just a few blocks away from Central, I’m sorry, City Park.  On that first warm March day I gather up all the children who put on their mismatched shoes and beg me me to let them ride their scooters to the park.

 

I sigh.  It’s already enough work to just get us to the park, but it’s warm and they want to.

“Yes,” I say quickly following up with a, “but you must listen to me and not run out into the road before looking.”

“YEAAAA” they roar with the enthusiasm of a captive bear that is finally free of his cage.

We trudge the side streets down the hill toward the park.  I try not to think about having to walk back up to get home.  Cambridge is nothing but hills and the fact that my legs aren’t stronger shows that I do not take enough walks.  

Mary, I don’t know her but she looks like a Mary, was out sweeping dead leaves and sticks off her porch.  

“Aw don’t you have your hands full,” she calls as all seven of us walk by her two bedroom with picket fence on Scott.  

I smile and it’s genuine.  I don’t mind the comments from older folks.  

“Beautiful day isn’t it?” I yell to her as we bustle past.  

We finally round the corner as the kids ask for the 1,119th time, “Are we almost there?” followed up by the ever annoying “I’m hawwwwt”.

“It’s finally beautiful out,” I hiss, “Stop complaining.”

We pause at the iron swing that overlooks the pond.   We have made it.  

The duck pond, as locals like to call it, really is a pond full of ducks.  Not the kind of mallards you usually see in the wild, but a diverse configuration of ducks that look like they’ve been dropped off in the middle of the night by a disgruntled farmer.  I have a feeling that isn’t too far off from the truth.  

The older boys were fishing one day last year when a master fisherman came up and told them that there aren’t baby ducklings anymore because the big Muskie (a very big species of fish, or if you’re from around here— the world’s largest dragline) is eating them all.

Huh, it does seem like there should be ducklings this time of year.  

I smile and nod at the dog walkers as we pass them.  Dog walkers come in all shapes and sizes, but they have one thing in common— the winding path around the pond.  

Brad likes to walk our feisty beagle down there too.  Once the police picked Birdie up at the pond because she was chasing the ducks and causing a ruckus.  That was the first, but not the last, time she got arrested.  

One of the walkers, a woman in her 50’s walking a cocker spaniel poodle mix, pauses when she sees the kids.

“Wanna pet her?” she says sweetly.

I don’t really care to pet this dog, but my kids oblige.  Seems nice enough.  

I look across the pond, grateful for the sun that is finally warming my face after a long winter.  The young ones are down near the edge of the pond and I regret not sifting around in the cabinets for some stale bread to feed the ducks.

A man and his grandson sit diagonally across the water from us, fishing poles in the water with their bottoms on overturned 5 gallon buckets.  Maybe they’re going after the Muskie.  

“Cast over there, by them rocks.  I saw a fish jump a minute ‘go,” I hear the granddad instruct the boy who looked annoyed at the advice.   Maybe he was just annoyed.

We move on and cross a bridge that is really just a few rotten boards covering a dip in the ground.  It tests my patience with the stroller so I’ve added it to my list of things that I will talk to the mayor about if I ever get the opportunity . I also have adding rentable pedal boats and more benches to the pond area on my list.

The kids run ahead to the little playground, which is of course much smaller than the big playground.  It’s one of those new fangled sort of sets that encourages motor skills and strength.  Even I climb on this one sometimes.

I take a moment to park the stroller in the shade of the pavilion and sit on the picnic table as the baby snacks on some yogurt bites.  

I hear a ruckus behind me.  There’s a a gaggle of young girls, tweens, riding by on their electric scooters, shorts too short and heads full of dreams and giggles.  

I don’t know why young girls always seem to be giggling and whispering to each other, but I’m sure I did the same thing many moons ago.  I’m happy they’re at the park instead of by themselves on a screen.  

Inevitably one of my kid looks up the hill and remembers.  THEY REMEMBER.  

The Tastee Treat is just up the hill.  The Tastee Treat has ice cream and popsicles and slushies and shakes.  All the food groups a kid thinks they need, and all the food groups parents wish don’t exist.

“MOM,” a daughter yells, snapping me out of my tween girl eavesdropping, “MOMMMMMM, can we get Tastee Treat?!”

I take a moment to respond.  The way forward is important and can mean life or death, ahem I mean happiness or unhappiness, for the rest of this trip.  For all of us.  

“I’m not going to buy Tastee Treat today.  You know that it’s expensive,” I pause with thought, “But we can have ice cream when we get home.”

“WHYYYYYYYY?” the whining and crying commences.  

I ignore the whining and settle back into my eavesdropping when I notice that the girls were joined by a couple of boys, ones that I recognize from the neighborhood.  The boys are jumping the concrete barriers, showing off as boys like to do for girls.  The girls still twitter and laugh, chins down and looking at each other instead of the boys.  I wave high to the boys we know, and they happily return my wave.  Nice kids.

My children forget about the whining and settle back into their game.  Spring is once again quiet and peaceful in the park.

Eventually the baby’s snacks run out.  I walk him around the playground a few times until I call for the kids to join me for the trek home.  I prepare myself for complaints, but instead all I get is compliance.

“Ah, that’s right.” I remember, “I promised them ice cream.”

We walk out past the basketball courts, full of young adults and teens who are sweaty and shirtless on this first warm day.  There is one game that looks particularly rambunctious, and I wonder if someone will have to intervene shortly.  The kids don’t look much older than 14.  

“That was NOT a foul.  You’re just bein’ a baby,” the smaller one says as he stands on his tippy toes so he can be in the taller one’s face.  Brave boy.  

We walk up Clairmont this time, past the elementary school.  They widened the sidewalks, and except for the traffic (Cambridge traffic is on par with Sam’s Club aisles on a busy day— it’s really not bad but you still like to complain about it) it’s quite a nice walk.

“Don’t touch the poison ivy,” I remind them as we pass the house on the corner that has nicely trimmed bushes absolutely filled with poison.

“We KNOWWWW mom,”  they respond, but inevitably someone always brushes up against it and is miserable in a day or two.  

We pass by the YMCA and my daughter reminds that’s where her friend takes gymnastics.  She reminds us of this every single time we pass.  

We’re finally in our alley.  I notice Barb across the street and wave to her.  “Are you enjoying the day?” I ask.  She takes a walk nearly everyday without fail, even when it’s not this beautiful.

“Oh yes, isn’t this so nice?” she responds in her warbly voice that always reminds me of my own grandma.  “And it looks like you are as well!”

I feel a hand pulling on mine, reminding me I’m taking too long for their little attention spans.

“I have to get them ice cream, but enjoy your walk!” I yell as I move on down the alley.

8 minutes later we are sitting on the porch steps, ice cream cones in hand.  

I smile thinking about how much I love this town— from the bustling streets, to the kids on the bikes, and the folks walking to and fro to the Circle K with their giant pops.  I think about all the different people we encountered in the park and my heart about bursts with gratitude for this place.

In Cambridge, I see life.  And life— life is good.