Peninsula Park is a wildlife refuge on the “other” side of Edinboro Lake, PA. Land, dredged for an [abandoned] real estate project, created multiple pockets of lake separated by mini-peninsulas.
Today, the first day of spring in Northwestern PA, the following abstractions from Peninsula Park.
© photography by Ruth Ann Scanzillo 3/20/16
© littlebarefeetblog.com Thank you for visiting!
[ Dear Bloggies,
I missed you.
Yes….away for three days, and I missed you.]
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New York. So vast; so brief. One has to stop and sit still, for a moment, just to be sure.
Dusk, on Monday; arriving, balanced on top of brand new laced wedges and ready for bed, I fell into the clutches of a solicitous Uber-assistant who, with one simple utterance:
( “Taxi?”)
placed strategically just inside the airport exit, wooshed me into a wrong colored car and all the way to my AirB&B door
for a cool 80 bucks.
No. We didn’t make out. I crawled in; he disappeared.
The chauffeur took over.
And, he drove. Fast.
I was too tired to care
* * * * * * *
Twelve hours hence, after meeting cool B&B hosts, Al and Hannah,
and sleeping like a baby on purple sheets,
[it’s true, what they say; solo car horns, yelping hallucinogenics, garbage crew…..all night]
I donned my Macy’s recommended apparel and headed even further uptown. Destination:
The appointed time: High noon.
Striding to the grand entrance, I pulled.
The doorman, Alexander, materialized behind the glass.
“Push!” smiled Alex.
(I would learn that, above all else, what distinguishes New York City from every other place on Earth are its doors, hinged to open forward.)
The foyer glistened, with high sunlight and history.
The gentleman on the 9th floor was lean, curved, and tall. Calling out my first name in salutation, he greeted me with his lips pointed in a kiss. He was a first generation German,
and he had pianos in his livingroom.
Three of them.
This Chippendale, 1958, had a delicate, pearl-dropped soprano in sotto voce, a six cylinder bass, and a warm, European tenor.
The Bluthner was on its last legs, and the third humble, congested, unliberated.
.
Labor.
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Two hours later, I was 300 dollars lighter and ready for the company of dear friends.
It’s good to be home, wherever you are.
Much love,
littlebarefeetblog
p.s. Due to extremely high winds at landing, the return flight was delayed three hours. Our pilot navigated the bank in on his first attempt, and the cabin burst into applause. The next afternoon, I signed for a brand new Steinway Model M, in Pittsburgh’s private showroom.
My own baby.
We’ll grow together.
.
But, I’ll miss you, Chippendale.
Just like I’ll miss NY.
Yes.
Summer is nearly here.
Around these parts, the season is brief, like a terminal illness.
After two consecutive winters which challenged even the 80 year old farmers’ conviction that they and all their growing things would make it through, actually seeing the first blooms has become almost surreal.
And, the prettier everything gets, the more frantic people scramble to fit in:
.
It’s true. I’ve become so sensitive to the brevity of the season. But, in my case, there are reminders.
After all, Mom was diagnosed as inoperable on Father’s Day, and by August 4th she was gone.
Dad got pneumonia in late March, and by April 9th, he was gone.
Yet, while warming weather makes the scent of demise rise for this girl, I am really feeling the urge.
Not to die.
To live.
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So, defy gravity!
Head north, or east, or west, to Erie’s Great Lake.
Celebrate living – with those of us who see the end from the beginning.
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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo
5/11/15
littlebarefeetblog.com
littlebarefeetblog 