“Where’s home for you?” a stranger asks a fellow traveler on a plane.
“Wherever she is,” comes the reply, as the man points at his wife.
– From “Words I wish I wrote” by Robert Fulghum
“Let’s take a walk down by the river,” came the suggestion from KM.
“Do what?”
“You heard me. It’s like the most beautiful day that’s ever been. We can actually walk outside for more than five minutes and not need a shower.”
(I listened patiently, forming useless objections in my mind.)
“The sky is deep blue again,” she continued. “Not that hazy white heat that always makes us think about taking a trip to Canada, which we never do.”
She was on a roll, I hated to admit. I had nothing.
After we had walked about ten minutes, she asked, “So how far you want to go?”
“How ‘bout to here?” I said.
No comment.
“OK,” I tried again. “I haven’t been up on that bridge since it opened. Let’s go up there.”
“Deal,” she said.
Mimosas formed a canopy above the old river road, where once I had won a race in my dad’s black 1974 Grand Prix, with the four barrel 455 V-8.
The memory was broken when a guy whizzed by on one of those adult tricycles. He had a helmet and a long pole sticking up with a flag on top, for low-flying airplanes, I guessed.
We saw the big houses above us, built at our old high school hangout. Known as Overlook, it was the place where all the kids hung out on Friday nights back in the seventies - that is, until the city council put up a barricade as one of the many “Ban Teenage Fun” campaigns from that time. After that, we ended up at any kid’s house whose parents were dumb enough to allow it.
I pointed up to Overlook. “Remember the fun we use to have up there?”
“Sure do.”
Some joggers went by, breathing hard under the late sun.
We came to the wooden bridge, and both remembered seeing rats swimming below one time, in the bayou-looking muddy water. There was nothing now but some driftwood and an old tire.
Two girls stood on the bridge, taking pictures. A walker coming toward us looked out of place, wearing street clothes and loafers. He made me think of Dirty Man, the name our kids, years ago, had given the scraggly homeless guy that walks all over the city. A girl at church named Liz had mentioned him just last Sunday to me.
“I saw Brown Walking Man the other day in Walgreens,” Liz said.
“Who?” I asked her.
“You know, the scraggly homeless guy you see walking everywhere around the city.”
“You mean Dirty Man?”
“I heard he was in a witness protection program,” someone else said.
“No, he used to be on a soap opera until they killed his character off, and he never recovered.”
The legends grow.
KM and I came to the Big Dam Bridge, but still had a ways to go to get to the entrance.
When we got to its apex, we sat on a bench and enjoyed the breeze. She stood up and looked over the side.
“See any gators?”
“There aren’t alligators in there,” she said, almost asking.
“Just 500-pounders that would swallow you whole.”
She looked again and I grabbed her leg, doing my best imitation of an alligator growl, which got her to shriek, and people to look.
I won’t tell you what she said next.
“Just for that, you can walk back alone to the car and pick me up on this side.”
Which is what I did.
Jay Edwards is editor-in-chief of the Hamilton County Herald and an award-winning columnist. Contact him at jedwards@dailydata.com.
“W
...here’s home for you?” a stranger asks a fellow traveler
on a plane.
“Wherever she is,” comes the reply, as the man points at his wife.
– From “Words I wish I wrote” by Robert Fulghum
“Let’s take a walk down by the river,” came the suggestion from KM.
“Do what?”
“You heard me. It’s like the most beautiful day that’s ever been. We can actually walk outside for more than five minutes and not need a shower.”
(I listened patiently, forming useless objections in my mind.)
“The sky is deep blue again,” she continued. “Not that hazy white heat that always makes us think about taking a trip to Canada, which we never do.”
She was on a roll, I hated to admit. I had nothing.
After we had walked about ten minutes, she asked, “So how far you want to go?”
“How ‘bout to here?” I said.
No comment.
“OK,” I tried again. “I haven’t been up on that bridge since it opened. Let’s go up there.”
“Deal,” she said.
Mimosas formed a canopy above the old river road, where once I had won a race in my dad’s black 1974 Grand Prix, with the four barrel 455 V-8.
The memory was broken when a guy whizzed by on one of those adult tricycles. He had a helmet and a long pole sticking up with a flag on top, for low-flying airplanes, I guessed.
We saw the big houses above us, built at our old high school hangout. Known as Overlook, it was the place where all the kids hung out on Friday nights back in the seventies - that is, until the city council put up a barricade as one of the many “Ban Teenage Fun” campaigns from that time. After that, we ended up at any kid’s house whose parents were dumb enough to allow it.
I pointed up to Overlook. “Remember the fun we use to have up there?”
“Sure do.”
Some joggers went by, breathing hard under the late sun.
We came to the wooden bridge, and both remembered seeing rats swimming below one time, in the bayou-looking muddy water. There was nothing now but some driftwood and an old tire.
Two girls stood on the bridge, taking pictures. A walker coming toward us looked out of place, wearing street clothes and loafers. He made me think of Dirty Man, the name our kids, years ago, had given the scraggly homeless guy that walks all over the city. A girl at church named Liz had mentioned him just last Sunday to me.
“I saw Brown Walking Man the other day in Walgreens,” Liz said.
“Who?” I asked her.
“You know, the scraggly homeless guy you see walking everywhere around the city.”
“You mean Dirty Man?”
“I heard he was in a witness protection program,” someone else said.
“No, he used to be on a soap opera until they killed his character off, and he never recovered.”
The legends grow.
KM and I came to the Big Dam Bridge, but still had a ways to go to get to the entrance.
When we got to its apex, we sat on a bench and enjoyed the breeze. She stood up and looked over the side.
“See any gators?”
“There aren’t alligators in there,” she said, almost asking.
“Just 500-pounders that would swallow you whole.”
She looked again and I grabbed her leg, doing my best imitation of an alligator growl, which got her to shriek, and people to look.
I won’t tell you what she said next.
“Just for that, you can walk back alone to the car and pick me up on this side.”
Which is what I did.
Jay Edwards is editor-in-chief of the Hamilton County Herald and an award-winning columnist. Contact him at jedwards@dailydata.com. v