Sunday Morning Absolution

The sky is the color of water at the shallow end of a pool.  The hue is perfect for the day, a cool blue to complement a cool morning.  The sun is awake and in a pleasant mood, bright and inviting, splashing everything in the backyard with a gentle warmth that balances beautifully with a slight and lilting breeze.   Nature has composed a singularly spectacular morning, one without a tether to the season of its birth.  It is neither too hot nor too cold, and had I been dropped onto this patio chair from some distant void, I could not say  with certainty whether this day belonged to spring or autumn or to the capriciousness of an Indian summer.  I could only say that it is surely not winter.

But it is winter, of course.  A wet and dreary one, so far.  On this day however, this delightful morning adorned with the sounds of a single mocking bird calling from the high branches of an oak and a small flock of doves cooing on the utility line traversing the alley, a reprieve has been granted from the dismal, soggy grayness .  Nature is sometimes kind.  Today she is truly beneficent.   So I drink it in.

The cat is pleased that I’m outside.  She acknowledges her happiness by ignoring me with more deference than usual.  Her tail casually swings right and left as she surveys the ginger grove along the rear fence line, ever vigilant for her favorite prey, hapless lizards sunning on the stalks. I watch her disappear behind the garage.  Shortly she’ll emerge with a tiny, panting reptile in her mouth and I’ll admonish her to let the poor creature go.  She’ll settle beneath the patio chair farthest from my reach and play the role of a feline Zeus, alternately tormenting and liberating her little victim until she tires of the game.  I’ll sigh with a kind of Darwinian resignation.  There are simply too many lizards to save them all.

Luci has opened the back door and raised a few windows, inviting the day inside.  I hear her puttering about the kitchen through the open doorway.  It’s a pleasant sound.  She emerges on the stoop and asks if I hear the sound of children talking and laughing.  I do, I say.  They’re passing our house on the street.  We both listen and smile and Luci goes back inside.

Haruki Murakami’s “The Wind Up Bird Chronicle” sits on the patio table to my left, waiting for me to awaken the bookmark sleeping among its pages.  There is no better sort of day than this to read, a day without pressing tasks or obligations, with the sun warming my back and a quiet, meditative flow ebbing through the neighborhood. 

A large ant has climbed onto the cover of Murakami’s novel, wending its way in a zig-zag fashion from bottom to top.  It stops to notice the title, considers its discovery for a moment, then continues on its journey down the side of the book and off onto the table top.  I imagine that if an ant could read, Murakami is precisely the kind of writer that would appeal to it.

A squirrel begins to chatter in the neighbor’s tree in that dreadfully monotonous way that signals their territory is threatened.  No doubt the cat is deliberately sunning at the base of the tree housing their nest. 

The morning has given way to noon while I’ve sat here daydreaming and bathing in the fragrance of a temporary timelessness.   A yellow butterfly glides by my chair and lands on the lantana nearby.  The sun has now shifted across the sky and shadows dapple parts of the yard that were earlier in sunlight.  I think a glass of cabernet would be a nice accompaniment to my book.  Soon I’ll find my way to the kitchen and pour myself a glass and give Luci a quick kiss and rearrange my chair so that the sun is once again at my back.   For now, though, I  sit and breathe and simply enjoy the day. 

The cat appears from nowhere and jumps onto the chair to my left, the one closest to me.  She settles into the cushion and begins to nap.  I think of doing the same.

God and Sandy Hook Elementary

There seems to be a widespread belief among Christian fundamentalists that the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary was somehow directly or indirectly caused because “God is not allowed in schools”.    As if to double down on this theology, several fundamentalist leaders have made public statements to that effect.  Mike Huckabee says school shootings happen because, “God is absent from our schools.”     Bryan Fischer from the American Family Association believes the same thing.  He says “We've kicked God out of our public school system. And I think God would say to us, 'Hey, I'll be glad to protect your children, but you've got to invite me back into your world first. I'm not going to go where I'm not wanted. I am a gentleman.’"

 Apparently chivalry is now an attribute of the divine nature. 

These ideas are nonsense.  God has not abandoned schools, nor does it make any sense to characterize him as someone who sits on the front porch sipping mint juleps and tipping his hat when a lady walks by.  There are many descriptors that can be applied to God’s’ character, but “gentleman” is definitely not one of them.   A quick look at Jesus’ life reveals that he had little interest in gentlemanly behavior.  Indeed the one thing that can be said about Jesus is that he purposely chose NOT to conform to the standard of propriety of his day, nor did he value superficial courtesy for its own sake (which is the underlying definition of ‘gentleman’).   Jesus overturned tables in the Temple and excoriated religious leaders as venomous snakes on a regular basis, things a gentleman would never do.

While it might feel tingly to imagine God as a chivalrous but deferential consort who wouldn’t think of intruding where he isn’t wanted, such an idea fails to correspond with an omnipotent, omnipresent deity “who works all things after the counsel of his own will”. 

Religious rhetoric that intends the phrase “we’ve kicked God out of our public school system “ to mean that we have defined and limited what God can and cannot do and where he may or may not go is a gross misrepresentation of the concept of human free will.  We may decide what we will do, individually and collectively, but we have no authority or power whatsoever to determine what God may do, or how or when he chooses to manifest his presence.   God does not abandon or desert public schools simply because a legal opinion requires that he do so. 

God is not constrained by human laws nor does he disregard or forsake his sovereignty.  It is not enough to say that God has the “right” to govern all things according to his own will but is prevented from doing so by human conventions.  If he is God, then it is necessarily the case that he does, in fact, govern all things always and without exception.  God is not merely sovereign in principle but is sovereign in practice.

As regards matters of practical sovereignty, God exercises what has come to be called providence, which is his continual upholding, sustaining and caring for all that exists.  God’s providential care is unaffected by the whims of human contrivance; he need not seek our permission or obtain our consent.  And, in fact, public school presents endless opportunities for providence to work.

Common sense tells us that public school isn’t an isolated, self-contained component of a child’s life, divorced from the balance of their experiences.  Schooling doesn’t happen in a vacuum.  Teachers, administrators, students, staff and volunteers bring their life experiences, their worldviews, their spiritual ideologies with them every time they walk onto campus.  And it is not secular humanists that are teaching and staffing our elementary and secondary schools.  Overwhelmingly, it is Christians.  Three-quarters of all Americans identify themselves as Christian, according to a recent Pew Research Center survey, and of that number, fully 68% responded that their religious beliefs were “very important” in their daily lives.  Does anyone really believe that Christian teachers and staff remove their religious beliefs and hang them in the cloak closet until it’s time to go home?  Are teachers and students prevented from engaging in an internal dialogue with God throughout their day?  Is there something about a school building that prevents God from initiating acts of providence in and through the lives of those attune to his presence? One passing comment, one small deed, multiplied countless times throughout the fabric of a typical school day might be just the vehicle that ensures God’s providential work is carried out as he decrees.   And because public schools are local in nature, students are likely to attend the same churches or belong to the same civic organizations as some of their teachers and fellow students.   Parents and families know each other, socialize together, worship together.    

Some people would have us believe that our public schools represent a kind of moral wasteland where God has been excommunicated and our children’s physical and spiritual lives are at peril.   Nothing could be further from the truth.

These fundamentalist leaders know full well what they’re doing.  The real purpose of their statements is to assign blame and guilt, and to further a political agenda.  By doing so, however, they diminish the very God that they purport to revere, and twist his character into a petty, narcissistic demigod whose moral maturity is far less developed than the first graders that he supposedly left to fend for themselves.

We cannot know the “why” of the tragic events in Newtown Connecticut because its very nature is senseless.  But we need not imagine that the children who were killed were alone, abandoned by a God in which most, if not all, believed, on a day that they needed him most.  To envision such a scenario would be cold and heartless. 

Christmas with Kierkegaard

I love the extended end-of-year holiday season.  I enjoy everything about it, but I especially like Christmas.  Given a choice between the two major cultural-christian holidays, Easter and Christmas, I’d take Christmas every time.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying “humbug” to Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday.  In the framework of western philosophical and religious thought, Easter – or its equivalent – is inevitable.   Humanity seems inexorably drawn to reminders of our imperfection and alienation, our struggle to define the sacred, our emptiness apart from something greater than our self.  Easter is the perfect complement for such ruminations.  By contrast, the advent season is the antithesis of that.  Christmas reminds us that the story of humanity need not be bound up in the existential angst of uncertainty and despair.

It’s about innocence, new beginnings, gifts and celebrations. It’s about family and community.  When distilled to its essence Christmas is about us; a proclamation of the value of the human race.  It’s a season to celebrate our worth, our purpose.  It begins with an announcement, but not one made with the bravado of human hubris.  Rather it is a declaration from an other-worldly choir heralding “peace on earth, good will to all people”.  It is God’s messengers who usher in this season, their joyous song a reflection of what deity thinks about us, what he envisions for us, and what we should envision for ourselves. It is not a time of doubt and estrangement but of faith and community.  Fear not, we are told, for this is an occasion of good tiding, a time of great joy. 

As befits a celebration, a gift has been given. 

The miracle of Christmas may not lie so much in the fact of incarnation as in the expression of ultimate worth revealed in its effect - that the manger’s babe is a child of humanity.  Our merit, indeed our intrinsic value is revealed not in that God has come to visit with us but that He has become one of us, and more importantly, that he has become one of the least of us, a helpless child.  By this simple yet profound act God affirms his trust in us and the value of who we are.  Christmas is a reminder that life is pregnant with purpose and meaning and that each of us independently and as an organic whole is favored and deserving of good will and peace.

I do not want to see you through the darkened glass of tradition, nor through the eyes of today’s values and prejudices. I want to see you as you were, as you are, and as you always will be.   - Soren Kierkegaard

Le Jardin De La Vie

“Bonjour!” Jean-Pierre bellowed happily, riding the lawn tractor up the grassy knoll and down the other side.  “Comment ca va, mes amis!” 

Every workday began this way, with the gardener shouting greetings and nodding enthusiastically to all the residents he encountered during his daily tasks.  Today was the scheduled mowing routine along the older, hilly section of the property, an area that Jean-Pierre particularly liked.  The tenants there were by far his favorites.

He set about clipping the St. Augustine grass in long, angled, alternating rows to give it a nice patterned look, winking as his mower brought him near Tee Mike who was doing his morning tumbling and jumping.  Jean-Pierre prefaced the names of all young men he knew with “Tee”, a bayou colloquialism derived from the formal French “petite” meaning small.  Cresting the knoll near the property’s small lake, he nodded at Mr. Parsons as he passed near the old preacher who regularly paced along the banks of the pond, practicing his Sunday sermons on the wood ducks and geese paddling nearby.

Making a wide turn around an ancient live oak, Jean-Pierre saw a vehicle heading in his direction along the gravel path that originated at the main building.  He narrowed his eyes and slowed the lawn mower.  Mr. Jacobs, the general manager, was paying him a morning visit.

“Dis can’t be good,” he murmured.  “Mr. Jacobs never set foot on dat cart ‘cept to bring bad news.  Good news always wait.  Bad news always in a hurry.”

Jean-Pierre knew why his boss was bobbing up and down the path in the modified golf cart that the business used to traverse the grounds.  The young man that Mr. Jacobs had directed the gardener to begin training as his assistant had been summarily dismissed no more than a half-day after he started.  By Jean-Pierre himself.

The lawn mower and golf cart met at the curve in the path and their respective drivers parked the vehicles head-to-head, each one sliding off their seat in tandem, the sound of gravel crunching beneath their feet as they approached one another for a morning tete-a-tete.   Mr. Jacob’s complexion, usually the color of paste, had taken on a ruddy hue, a sure sign that his temperament was in a fluster.

“Jean-Pierre, you can’t fire every apprentice who’s offered the job,” he began, waddling towards the gardener while retrieving a white kerchief from his pocket to dab drops of perspiration from his forehead.   Mr. Jacobs’ wide girth and black business suits preferred the cool of indoors to the warm, humid gardens.  “Surely all of them aren’t incompetent.”

“Well sir, so far dey have been.”

Mr. Jacobs sighed.  “The kid I sent to you yesterday?  He seemed bright enough to train. What was wrong with him?”

Jean-Pierre pursed his lips and shook his head slowly for emphasis.  “I ax him to drive da cart wid da tools ova to da lake.  Leave da tools dare an’ come back to fetch me.  I ax him when he come back who he done tawk to on da way to and da way from. “

“Ok,” Mr. Jacobs said.  “And then what?”

“Nobody,” Jean-Pierre answered.  “He don’t say ‘comment ca va’ to nobody.  He don’t even say ‘yat’. “

“Did it occur to you that he didn’t see anybody, Jean-Pierre?”  Mr. Jacobs feigned a gesture of searching the property.  “I don’t see anybody.  Except you, of course.”

 “Exactly dat, Mr. Jacobs.  He don’t see nobody.  He don’t look.”  Jean-Pierre cocked his head to the side.  “None of dees ‘prentisses you send me can look, Mr. Jacobs.  Dey all blind to every ting ‘cept a  damn paycheck.  When you send me a body dat can look, I hire him.  I hire him on da spot.”

Mr. Jacobs shook his head in frustration.  “Jean-Pierre, whatever qualities you think a gardener needs, I’m sure you can teach.  But you’ve got to give the poor kids a fighting chance.  You can’t fire every single one of them before lunch.”

“If dey don’t work out, dey don’t work out,” Jean-Pierre explained.  “No more to discuss, less you wants dat I should leave, too.”

Mr. Jacobs wiped the kerchief across his forehead.  A line of sweat was beginning to dampen the crisply starched collar of his oxford dress shirt and his complexion was slowly turning from a mottled red to crimson .  “Now you know good and well that’s not what anyone wants, Jean-Pierre,” he chided with sincerity.   “It’s just that, well, like we’ve discussed, you’re getting on in age now.  Some tasks aren’t getting done like they used to be done.  We’ve got a reputation to maintain, a reputation that includes a pristine setting.  Our customers pay for that.  They expect it.”

The gardener nodded in agreement.

“No one wants to replace you, Jean-Pierre.  But you need a helper.”  Mr. Jacobs waved his arms outward.  “This place needs help.  Sooner or later you’ve got to hire somebody.”

“I know dat, sir.  I know dat some well.  But Mr. Jacobs, dis ain’t your garden.  It’s dere garden.  And dey don’t take kindly to bein’ snubbed.  No sir, not at all. I done tole you plainly dat when the right one come along, I’ll know it.”

Jean-Pierre looked down at the gravel path and brushed the pebbles with one of his boots.  “If we done finished our little tawk, I got work  to do, Mr. Jacobs.”

The general manager sighed again and walked back to the golf cart, mumbling and shaking his head.  The little vehicle groaned as he plopped his massive frame onto the seat and started the ignition.  “You’ve got to hire someone, Jean-Pierre,” he called out to the gardener, maneuvering the golf cart and aiming it towards his air-conditioned office.   “Soon.” 

Jean-Pierre spent the balance of the day in a funk, going about his routine mechanically.   He knew that Mr. Jacobs was right.  He did need help to maintain these huge grounds.  But he also knew that Mr. Jacobs, like all the young men that had applied for the training job, were blind to the interests of the residents.  It had taken a long time but for the most part they  trusted Jean-Pierre.  He had earned that trust because he respected them.  And he was determined to hire somebody that he could not only train to prune the camellia bushes and fertilize the prized rose garden, but also train to interact with the tenants.  On their terms.   They deserve that, he thought.  He was determined not to let them down.

Two more trainees came and went and when Jean-Pierre saw the golf cart rumbling down the path toward him later in the week, he figured that Mr. Jacobs’ patience was at an end.  As it approached the stand of azaleas that he was trimming, he breathed a sigh of relief to see Matthew, Mr. Jacob’s son, behind the steering wheel.  Sitting next to him was a young man dressed in a neatly pressed khaki shirt and pants with wavy black hair and a broad smile. 

The cart stopped next to Jean-Pierre and Matthew motioned to his passenger.  “Jean-Pierre, please meet John Akers.  He’s here to try out for the apprentice position.”

Jean-Pierre approached the passenger’s side, shook the young man’s hand and offered his standard greeting.  He noted the kid’s strong grip and stout frame, qualities amenable to manual labor, and the congenial smile that seemed relaxed and genuine.  “Hop off dat cart an’ I’ll give you da grand tour.  After dat, we see where it goes.”

John Akers exited the vehicle and followed Jean-Pierre to the old Jeep that served as the maintenance truck.  Matthew yelled “Good luck” and turned back towards the main building.

The Jeep cranked to life, belching a small plume of smoke in protest and Jean-Pierre steered it around the lake and across the knoll, heading to the hilly parcel of land at the far end of the property.   He explained in general terms how the property was divided and the overall routine and responsibilities that would be expected of a trainee.  Having gone through this routine countless times without success, he was dubious that John Akers would last the week.

A bend in the path gave way to a lovely bed of flowers beneath a sprawling live oak a few yards from the road.  On a bench next to the colorful display, an elderly lady sat in a pose of serene contemplation, her gaze somewhere beyond the boundaries of the surrounding gardens.

“She looks lost in thought, doesn’t she? John Akers commented as their vehicle rounded the bend.

“Where?  Whatchu see?”

“Sitting on the bench under the live oak.  Right there,” John pointed.

Jean-Pierre cracked a smile.  “Dat’s Miss Beaujouis.  More money dan God, dat one.  See how she dress?  Pearls all over.  She don’t talk much, but she don’t like bein’ snubbed, none-de-less.  We gonna nod like da gentlemen we are, as we pass by.”

John Akers looked quizzically at Jean-Pierre for a long moment and then broke into a broad smile.  “Yes, sir.  We should definitely nod like the gentlemen we are.” 

Both men smiled and bowed their heads briefly in the direction of the finely-dressed lady as the Jeep drove past .  She acknowledged their gesture with a faint smile at the corners of her mouth. 

“Does she come here often?” John Akers asked. 

Without answering the question, Jean-Pierre stopped the vehicle and turned to face the young man.  “I tink I’ll call you Tee John, if you fine wid dat.”

“Sure, that’s ok,” John Akers responded.  “Tee John it is.”

“Good,” Jean-Pierre said, turning the Jeep around and heading back to the maintenance shed.  “You hired, Tee John.  Da job is yours.”

John Akers smiled . “Thank you, sir.  You won’t regret it.”

“No, I don’t tink I will,” Jean-Pierre answered.

Back at the maintenance shed, Jean-Pierre directed his new apprentice to drive the Jeep to the main building and inform Mr. Jacobs that he’d been hired.  

“Da day is almost done, so you show up in da mornin’, bright an’ early.  You got lots to learn, Tee John.”

“Yes, sir,” John Akers replied and he headed to the office.

Jean-Pierre walked into the maintenance shed, a feeling of relief washing over him.  To no one in particular, he said “He’ll work out fine, Tee John will.  It’ll take him awhile, but he’ll work out jest fine.”

He placed his set of hand tools in a large trunk and latched it closed.  Brushing some grass clippings off the brass nameplate on its lid, he rubbed the inscription with the sleeve of his shirt, giving it a quick polish.   The brass label announced that the contents belonged to the business.  Property Of Restlawn Cemetary and Eternal Gardens, it read.

“Yep, Tee John’ll work out jest fine.  He can see an’ dat’s what counts.  He can see da ghosts.”

Locking the shed door and heading for his car in the parking lot, Jean-Pierre bid the residents goodnight. “Bon nuit,” he said.  “Reposer en paix.”   Rest in peace.

Gay Dads and Fast Food

During the month of July, I spent a substantial portion of my “dining-out” time (and money) at Chick-Fil-A.  I purposely patronized the business in response to what I perceived as hypocritical intolerance by individuals and groups who purport to uphold the concept of tolerance, but most importantly as a response to attempts at political suppression of free-speech rights against a private company by elected officials in various municipalities.

During that same timeframe, Luci and I also spent a substantial portion of our remodeling budget for the master bedroom at another company, JC Penney.  How is that relevant?  Well, let me share the following with you.  JC Penney is adamantly in favor of gay marriage.  In fact, this ad appeared a couple of months ago in their Father’s Day sale.

It’s an ad featuring a real-life same-sex couple. The ad features Todd Koch and Cooper Smith hugging their two young children. The copy reads, "What makes Dad so cool? He's the swim coach, tent maker, best friend, bike fixer and hug giver -- all rolled into one. Or two."  Similar ads appeared in Mother's Day ads.

Do I think that JC Penney’s management hates evangelical Christians?  Of course not.  Do I think this ad somehow undermines traditional values? In my view, that idea seems ridiculous.  Only a shallow, convoluted, inverted kind of thinking would arrive at that conclusion, the same kind of thinking that would conclude that Chick Fil-A “hates” gays.  I’ve managed to spend a whole lot of money at both Chick Fil-A and JC Penney lately, even though I agree with one and disagree with the other.  Regardless what I believe about gay rights and gay marriage, I believe even more strongly that tolerance and free speech and an honest respect of diverse opinions and social value systems can’t be a one-way-street.  

Chick-Fil-A and Fascism

During his term as president, Bill Clinton signed into law the Defense of Marriage Act, which defines marriage as a union between a man and woman.  During his senatorial debate in Illinois, when asked if he supported gay marriage, Barack Obama responded, "I'm a Christian, and so although I try not to have my religious beliefs dominate or determine my political views on this issue, I do believe that tradition and my religious beliefs say that marriage is something sanctified between a man and a woman.”

That was several years ago.  Since then, these two politicians and the politerati at large are changing their views.  Both Clinton and Obama now publicly declare their assent for gay marriage, each explaining that they changed their view over time.  That is a perfectly valid explanation.  My views on many subjects have changed over time as well, Life experiences and personal reflection provide the catalyst for changes, individually and collectively.  Social mores and cultural paradigms are dynamic, evolving components of human societies.  It’s quite reasonable to expect people to change their minds over time and for society to change its course.  It’s the nature of human social constructs.

What is not reasonable, what is contemptible in fact, is for political machines to employ fascist tactics in an attempt to accelerate social change by alienating and suppressing those who are not in line with certain political dogma or a specific political agenda, in this case the contrived controversy surrounding Chick-Fil A.

I had little interest in the silly, familiar and thoroughly insipid rants from the right and left as they spewed their selective indignation at each other about an old Baptist businessman’s opinion of marriage and its boundaries.  Next week it’ll be something else with similar cosmically insignificant weight.  That was before the politicians spoke.

Individuals have a perfectly legitimate right to boycott or support whatever companies and groups they choose, based on any criteria that seems reasonable to them.  Political entities are another matter entirely.

When political leaders in Boston and Chicago publicly vow to shut down a privately-held company from further expansion into their municipalities for no reason other than the personal beliefs regarding traditional marriage held by the company’s president -- beliefs which are roughly the same as those once held by Clinton and Obama and currently held by millions of other citizens – there’s a serious problem.

   

Political suppression of private markets, companies and groups based solely on a perceived “undesirable” ideology has a name:  Fascism.  The policies advocated by the political leaders in Boston and Chicago are decidedly fascist both in principle and practice and should be roundly  rejected.

Regardless of anyone’s previous or current stance on gay marriage or chicken sandwiches or old Baptist businessmen who embrace the same principles that most of your relatives probably do, we should all be alarmed about the diatribe coming from Boston and Chicago, because it’s wrong in a way that’s chillingly wrong.  It’s fascist. If you’ve ever wondered what fascism is and how it begins to work in a society, and how a culture like Nazi Germany or Mussolini’s Italy could ever have begun to exist in the first place – I mean, how could the citizens ALLOW it to exist, right? – just follow the news and carefully reflect on the statements from the mayors of Boston and Chicago.  If you truly find nothing wrong with their scenario, if it seems proper – or worse yet, irrelevant -to you for political authorities to suppress a company because they find it’s ideology undesirable, you’d probably have been very content living down the street from Auschwitz in the late 1940’s.  It’s a perfect example of how it begins.

Mr. Argyle

Autumn has arrived in the park.  A cooling breeze paints the air with the muted hues of blue and indigo as it deftly brushes over a dying summer, a pleasantly mild wind with only a hint of the cold that will arrive with winter.  The current of air courses the length of the open lawn and curves into the grove of oaks guarding its perimeter.  Leaves tussle against the breeze, their tenacious grip on the trees weakening as they quickly age from green into the dark golds and browns of fall.  This one and that one loosen their hold and, mounting upon an invisible wave of air, dance a twisted little jig above the lawn until the wind loses its breath and the leaves float haphazardly to the earth.   As if in concert, two oak leaves circle the park bench a few yards ahead of me and settle at the feet of its occupant, Mr. Argyle.

As has been my habit for the past three years, since moving into an apartment two blocks east and three blocks north of Hayward Park, my regular running route takes me through the gated entrance of this urban oasis, along its varied footpaths and bridges and after circumscribing its boundaries returns me again to this very spot, a row of benches facing the lawn green, near to the wide wrought iron arches that bid welcome to the neighborhood.   And near to Mr. Argyle.

Across the street, a series of small shops look toward the park, attached one to the other along the length of the block, a small train of commerce having reached its destination, with a café as its engine and a quaint little bookshop anchored as caboose.  Directly in front of me, two benches distant, Mr. Argyle sits amid a scurry of fat gray squirrels and even fatter pigeons, a small paper sack cupped in his hands.  From time to time he reaches into the bag and tosses peanuts about the ground, causing a flurry of activity among his feathered and furred companions.

 Mr. Argyle comes to the park most every day.  This I know because I also come to the park most every day.   For upwards of five hundred times in the past three years, he sits and feeds the animals while I run and feed my obsession.  Yet, despite the longevity of our encounters, we are acquaintances of the urban kind, which is to say that we are not acquaintances at all – merely two strangers whose lives regularly intersect near the periphery of a green.   On occasion our gazes meet and a proper nod is exchanged.  At other times simple phrases and greetings, as small as talk becomes, is our mutual signal that we are aware of the social convention which seeks an acknowledgement of the other.       

I stretch my calves against the brick edge of the walkway, bending to the left then to the right, holding each position until the muscles say “uncle” and give up their tension.  As I stretch, I notice that Mr. Argyle has dressed for the approaching season, a crisply starched long sleeved oxford shirt underlying his signature sweater vest.   “Dapper” is an appropriate descriptor for Mr. Argyle’s dress.   “Urbane” is too contemporary for the polished but well-worn loafers he commonly wears and “proper” is too stuffy for a man whose outfit includes a wool peacoat in January.  “Dapper” it is.

The gentleman’s name who regularly supplements the diet of Hayward Park’s birds and rodents is unknown to me.   I assign him the moniker “Mr. Argyle” as a consequence of his ubiquitous habit of donning –on each and every outing to the park, save those times during the heat of summer – a sweater vest knitted with the overlapping and three-dimensional diamond patterns of varying colors and shades whose name is that of its wearer.   I’ve lost count of Mr. Argyle’s inventory of sweater vests, yet find myself anticipating each new arrival as eagerly as I might expect my next edition of Runners World magazine. 

Today the park belongs only to the two of us as it often does.  Weekday mid-mornings aren’t popular, what with school and work schedules, and the vast expanse seems at times to have been gifted exclusively for two men to enjoy at their leisure.  If it were summer, Mr. Argyle and I would be the lone patrons of the ice cream vendor making his morning rounds through the green.   I choose vanilla.  Mr. Argyle prefers pistachio in a cup, never a cone, and he saves the last few spoonfuls until it’s melted enough to slurp. 

Springtime brings argyle-patterned sweater vests of yellows and greens and a large kerchief folded and tucked in his right front pants pocket to catch the sneezes and drips courtesy of allergens.  Yet, despite the promise of a stuffy nose and enflamed sinuses, still he arrives like clockwork, feeding the animals or reading The New Yorker, sneezing and dripping through the pages.

Winters are my favorite time to run and Mr. Argyle’s favorite time to feed his cherished park creatures.  Arriving daily with bags of nuts and pieces of fruit that he most certainly prepares himself, he sets a winters banquet for the likes of doves and pigeons, gray and fox squirrels, and the occasional colony of migratory fowl that wanders through.

The last of the peanuts are scattered on the grass and Mr. Argyle rises from his bench, crumpling the bag between fisted hands and eyeing the waste basket near the entrance.  Arcing his arms upward, he propels the paper ball towards the container and it rounds the opening, disappearing inside.  “Two points,” he says, grinning in my direction.  I smile and nod.  Walking under the archway, he leaves the park and heads to the café across the street.

I continue to stretch out my quads and in a few minutes he appears in the picture window of the eatery, walking to the table just to the right of the framed glass, a smallish table meant for two but usually occupied by one, a table with a slight tilt that makes the coffee in your cup lean against one side.  I’ve sat there myself.

Stretching finished, I look about the park for a minute before gathering my water bottle and heading for the exit.  I’ll need to consider long sleeved tech shirts from now until next spring.  A cool wisp of wind confirms my thought as I cross the street and step on the sidewalk in front of the café.  Mr. Argyle spots me through the window as I meander by and he raises his cup of coffee.  I offer a wave in return.

As I walk home, I wonder which sweater vest he’ll wear tomorrow.  I wonder where the heck he buys those sweater vests and if the peanuts he feeds the squirrels come from the vendor on the corner near the bookshop.  I wonder what he does when he leaves the little café and if he knows that a festival is scheduled in the park for next weekend.  I should mention it to him.  He  especially enjoys the park during festivals.  I turn the block and begin a mental plan for tomorrow’s run.  I’ll take the long course over the far bridge and round back across the inclined pathway.  A good workout.

 He’ll probably wear something with an autumn-colored argyle print, if I had to bet.  Not that it really matters in the scheme of things.  We’re far from friends.  I don’t even know his name.