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The Neighborhood

08 March, 2019



The dog park is a place I go on the weekends, with my dog. It's full of trees, enchanting what would be a normal routine experience with a mist and cloud as if it originated from the Nightmare Before Christmas. I never grew up in a real neighborhood. I've always desired to experience block parties, knocking on next-door-neighbor's screen door to ask for sugar, and to be a part of a community. Now that I occupy a small home on a street just like that of my dreams, yet it's not quite like what I imagined. Why are these tracks here? Perhaps, a park ranger or some other official needed to speedily warn off-leash dogs (and their owners) to get back to their off-leash area, or else! Or, maybe some rascals decided to go galavanting in their parents’ Toyota Prius and it was a bit muddier than expected. Regardless, these tire markings are inappropriately placed and are where they ought not to be. Seeing lost keys reminds me of my dad. For some reason, most every time we traveled to Moab, Utah, which was about twice a year or so, my dad would lose something like his wallet or keys. On one occasion his wallet fell on the road and someone still found it and returned it to him. Another time he left it on the top of his truck and someone again returned it to him. I have a habit of forgetting things as well. I walk by this baseball field each time we head to the park; it sits right at the entrance to the entire space. I'm reminded of playing tee-ball as maybe a five or six-year-old. Our team had purple shirts labeled 'Rockies.' It made sense we'd choose that name and color living in Colorado. This area is typically filled with big dogs and owners with equally large personalities. The other day, my dog, who is on the smaller side, was minding her business when out of the sky dropped an obnoxious orange, semi-deflated soccer ball, closely followed by a boisterous black lab and an owner who was talking so loud on her cellphone it could probably be heard the next state over. There is a car that lives across the street from my house; forever sick and immobile, it waits and waits for emergency support to come and cart it away, but it never manages. The scene always interests me, and seems to morph through the times of the day. Nothing really changes, but it feels unique and different, holding my attention with each passing glance. After returning from the dog park, we walked up alongside our driveway and my wife commented on the size of the fence being halved. I hadn’t noticed it before but, she was right. At some point, someone thought it would be a grand idea to cut the fence down in size by nearly 50It never struck me as odd before; now it’s all I can see.





     

Good Shout!

   
   
           
Mark
Writer, Photographer, Strategist
Portland, OR
By way of London, California, & Colorado