Last Saturday, I fought the road construction, the latest "fundraising walk of the week" road closures, and the general mayhem and confusion that is driving in downtown Pittsburgh. I fought it because by God, the kid and I had decided we were going to visit the Ft. Pitt museum and learn about old-fashioned Pittsburgh leisure activities.
We headed toward town, ended up being forced off the parkway thanks to lane restrictions, then (thanks to stadium lot closures) found ourselves in a no-way-back trek northward in the HOV lane (no, we did not want or intend to head north), and then finally came back down to town... where we paid too much to park near Point State Park. In addition to Ft. Pitt Museum's throwback leisure day (where I kicked my child's butt at lawn bowling), there was an outdoor festival happening simultaneously—lots of kiosks and stands dedicated to encouraging people and families to get outdoors and climb, hike, ride, explore, etc. It was quite inspiring, and less than stellar weather did not slow anyone down. Youngsters climbed a wall, my son tried out a 3-wheeler intended to rehabilitate folks with lower-body injuries, and we indulged in the most expensive soft pretzel ever. (Luckily, it wasn't bad...)
But we were at the Point. And short of a torrential downpour, floods, tornadoes, or black ice, one simply cannot visit the Point without making the walk to the Big Fountain. It's impossible to resist. The foaming tower of water, the hordes of humans milling around its base, the fantastic scene that unfolds before you in every direction—it's a favorite destination for a reason. Everybody loves it. You feel bigger there, and yet smaller, too. You are surrounded by manmade grandeur, yet also steeped in history. You're not far from that primitive little blockhouse, oldest structure in the 'burgh, but you're also staring across the water at a submarine, a football stadium, the science center cone, and one of the two inclines that crawl up and down the face of Mt. Washington. You're standing where original city settlers stood, where Frenchmen made a stand, where native Americans came aground. You're positioned right in the midst of Lewis and Clark's starting point.
A lot has happened on that piece of property.
And a lot is still happening there, albeit perhaps on a different scale. As we walked toward the fount, a park worker offered to take our photo. (He must have pitied us, as we attempted a somewhat-centered dual selfie while perched on a rock.) We accepted his kindness, posing, then chatted with him. He shared a funny story about a recent visitor to the park. A smallish fellow had come walking on the very same path we were exploring, had struck up a conversation with this gardener. They'd talked about how the fellow was staying uptown near the Consol Center, and eventually the visitor's identity became clear: Kenny G. Yep, the Kenny G. He was strolling anonymously through the park before his big concert performance. How cool is that? Our new friend shared how friendly and unassuming Kenny had been, how'd he'd laughed at the suggestion that he should be exploring the fair city with an entourage.
Even Kenny G likes Point State Park, and wanders through the shady greenery while gazing out at the massive waters that flow past.
If you can make your way around that vast fountain, and observe children giggling in the spray, and watch lovers adoring each other as they whisper sweet nothings in the clamor of the tumbling waters... If you can hear the tugboats alert each other as they pass, and trains send their high-pitched whistle skyward—if you can take all that in without smiling, then you're a rare human being... and quite possibly a joyless one.
Showing posts with label road. Show all posts
Showing posts with label road. Show all posts
Monday, May 19, 2014
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Shoe, fly
Lately, I've become increasingly aware of a strange phenomenon on America's roadways. (Perhaps it also exists on exotic roadways, but since I'm a continental gal, my awareness is decidedly limited.) You may have noticed it, too. It's definitely more prevalent in the warm months, but I've seen it all though the year: Random shoes on the side of the road. Or lying, hapless, on the median.
These lost shoes are not the "pair of sneakers over the wire" stunt. That is a foolish but more traditional shoe folly that I've never attempted, yet it makes at least a little bit of sense to me; apparently, the point of that little trick is to remove the shoes from the owner and cause consternation and frustration in said owner. Like I said, stupid—but meant to achieve an end. Petty, but purposeful.
This is not so with the roadside shoe. In all cases, the shoe is a single footwear item, separated from its mate. It usually appears to be in good repair, and the style of shoe I've seen abandoned in recent months is quite often a heavier, more formal style—sometimes a sneaker, more times an oxford style. (My informal statistics have proven that most often, these orphans appear to be big boys' or men's shoes.)
Now, flip-flops are just an invitation for shoe loss. They don't fit snugly to the foot, there's nothing secure or stable about them, they fly off even as people attempt to walk on level ground sometimes... but oddly, the flip-flop is not a frequent roadside shoe.
I despise waste, and seeing those single shoes makes me sad and angry. It is inarguably wasteful to toss a perfectly good shoe out of a window, thus rendering the other shoe absolutely useless unless the hurler happens to have a peg-leg. (Even prosthetic legs usually sport a matching shoe.)
I try to envision how the loss happened. Was there a battle within a car's confines? Were shoes used as weapons? Was a threat made, a blow delivered before the shoe sailed away? Or were these shoes perhaps someone's favorites that happened to be in the back seat when a cruel passenger flung them so thoughtlessly? Were they meant to be returned to a store and then not accepted, and thus thrown in anger? And if so, why not throw both of them? Or, better yet, donate them to Goodwill so some other unfortunate sod can wear them?
You see what I mean? It doesn't keep me awake, but it bothers me. A small matter, in this big world—but a matter than I cannot let rest.
Keep your shoes on, folks. And if you have insights about this, please feel free to share them.
These lost shoes are not the "pair of sneakers over the wire" stunt. That is a foolish but more traditional shoe folly that I've never attempted, yet it makes at least a little bit of sense to me; apparently, the point of that little trick is to remove the shoes from the owner and cause consternation and frustration in said owner. Like I said, stupid—but meant to achieve an end. Petty, but purposeful.
This is not so with the roadside shoe. In all cases, the shoe is a single footwear item, separated from its mate. It usually appears to be in good repair, and the style of shoe I've seen abandoned in recent months is quite often a heavier, more formal style—sometimes a sneaker, more times an oxford style. (My informal statistics have proven that most often, these orphans appear to be big boys' or men's shoes.)
Now, flip-flops are just an invitation for shoe loss. They don't fit snugly to the foot, there's nothing secure or stable about them, they fly off even as people attempt to walk on level ground sometimes... but oddly, the flip-flop is not a frequent roadside shoe.
I despise waste, and seeing those single shoes makes me sad and angry. It is inarguably wasteful to toss a perfectly good shoe out of a window, thus rendering the other shoe absolutely useless unless the hurler happens to have a peg-leg. (Even prosthetic legs usually sport a matching shoe.)
I try to envision how the loss happened. Was there a battle within a car's confines? Were shoes used as weapons? Was a threat made, a blow delivered before the shoe sailed away? Or were these shoes perhaps someone's favorites that happened to be in the back seat when a cruel passenger flung them so thoughtlessly? Were they meant to be returned to a store and then not accepted, and thus thrown in anger? And if so, why not throw both of them? Or, better yet, donate them to Goodwill so some other unfortunate sod can wear them?
You see what I mean? It doesn't keep me awake, but it bothers me. A small matter, in this big world—but a matter than I cannot let rest.
Keep your shoes on, folks. And if you have insights about this, please feel free to share them.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
A portrait of pals
I’ve seen them around many times, always walking along Babcock Boulevard. I’ll be driving by, and they’ll be making their way on foot. I always get a good look at them, because there’s never much of a sidewalk in the spaces they frequent; Babcock is lined with many necessary but unattractive industries, all of which seem to sneak right up to the edge of the road.
The short one is a man, slightly bandy-legged, usually wearing a scruffy coat, broken jeans, and nondescript work boots. I couldn’t tell you his facial features, because he often wears a baseball cap that obscures his details. There’s nothing hanging out the back of the cap, so I figure the fellow is either short-haired or tucks it up under the hat.
The tall one is a dog. A huge, rangy, all-black dog of indiscriminate breed, with the longest canine legs I’ve ever seen. The dog’s head sort of resembles a Great Dane’s—although this dog isn’t quite as sleek as that breed—and the dog’s gigantic face easily comes up to the guy’s bicep. They walk side-by-side, not hurrying, not tarrying, simply traveling with purpose. The dog is always leashed, and I’ve never seen him fight it or strain against it; like many large, mature dogs, he is confident and calm.
When I passed them today, the guy was seated beside the road on something—I’m not sure what—and the big beast was seated in the dirt next to him. Sitting like that, they were practically the same height. And the man was stroking the dog’s ears, and the dog was loving it, tongue lolling a bit, eyes half-closed.
It made me wonder where they live, and whether they walk for fun or because they have no choice. I’ve never seen them hauling big bags of dog food (or anything else for that matter), so I’m guessing the man must have a vehicle, since the dog looks healthy and well-cared for. I suppose the walks must be for the dog’s benefit. The beast certainly appears to be a dog that could walk on and on and on without tiring.
Are they best friends out of necessity? Did one find the other by accident, or was the relationship sought intentionally? Was the dog a tiny puppy once, and then metamorphosed into its current behemoth state? Did that smallish fellow have any idea of the size and appetite that would accompany the grown animal? Does the dog stretch out at the bottom of the bed and then, by morning, move up to claim a pillow, or is he relegated to his own doggy area on the floor?
The details don’t matter. They are pals, steadfast and true. At least in my mind.
The short one is a man, slightly bandy-legged, usually wearing a scruffy coat, broken jeans, and nondescript work boots. I couldn’t tell you his facial features, because he often wears a baseball cap that obscures his details. There’s nothing hanging out the back of the cap, so I figure the fellow is either short-haired or tucks it up under the hat.
The tall one is a dog. A huge, rangy, all-black dog of indiscriminate breed, with the longest canine legs I’ve ever seen. The dog’s head sort of resembles a Great Dane’s—although this dog isn’t quite as sleek as that breed—and the dog’s gigantic face easily comes up to the guy’s bicep. They walk side-by-side, not hurrying, not tarrying, simply traveling with purpose. The dog is always leashed, and I’ve never seen him fight it or strain against it; like many large, mature dogs, he is confident and calm.
When I passed them today, the guy was seated beside the road on something—I’m not sure what—and the big beast was seated in the dirt next to him. Sitting like that, they were practically the same height. And the man was stroking the dog’s ears, and the dog was loving it, tongue lolling a bit, eyes half-closed.
It made me wonder where they live, and whether they walk for fun or because they have no choice. I’ve never seen them hauling big bags of dog food (or anything else for that matter), so I’m guessing the man must have a vehicle, since the dog looks healthy and well-cared for. I suppose the walks must be for the dog’s benefit. The beast certainly appears to be a dog that could walk on and on and on without tiring.
Are they best friends out of necessity? Did one find the other by accident, or was the relationship sought intentionally? Was the dog a tiny puppy once, and then metamorphosed into its current behemoth state? Did that smallish fellow have any idea of the size and appetite that would accompany the grown animal? Does the dog stretch out at the bottom of the bed and then, by morning, move up to claim a pillow, or is he relegated to his own doggy area on the floor?
The details don’t matter. They are pals, steadfast and true. At least in my mind.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Familarity, and what it breeds
I’m sure you’ve heard it said that “familiarity breeds contempt.” And I must agree with that statement, to a point. It does seem to be true regarding our people relationships; we often feel contempt for the people with whom we are most familiar. Or, not contempt, exactly—perhaps disdain? A tendency toward annoyance? A disturbingly easy trend of fault-finding, nit-picking speech and thought?
Well, contempt for loved ones isn’t good, nor healthy. But that wasn’t what I was thinking about yesterday, as I was driving to look at a small, green, wooden chair that someone was selling on craigslist. (Bought it, love it—thanks, B!) I was thinking, as I drove—in that wondrous, silent refuge that is my car when I’m alone in it—I was thinking that familiarity gets a bad rap.
I was thinking this because I was driving across a bridge that I’d never used until about 7 years ago. When I first had to use that bridge, when it was undeniably the best way to get to a place where I needed to go, I feared the bridge. It was new, I hadn’t traveled it, I hadn’t crossed it and traversed the mysterious places it leads to… it was unfamiliar. And I did not care for it. Then, one brave day, I drove across the bridge, white-knuckled, creeping along in the proper lane, scanning road signs frantically—and I made it to the other side and to my exit. The bridge was, truly, the best route for that particular destination. And then I crossed the bridge again, and again. I even crossed it from the other side. And you know what happened? The bridge became my friend. I grew to like it, to respect it, to understand its purpose the way I could never understand it when I did not know it personally. It wasn’t a perfect bridge, but I appreciated it so much more when I gave it a chance. I was comfortable when crossing the bridge.
There are lots of roads around my town that have the same history with me; I feared them initially, I braved them once or twice, and then they became familiar to me. The roadway I used to fear the most? Now I take it to the zoo whenever I go there; it’s not so bad after all. That road can’t help being dangerous; it wasn’t designed for its current volume of traffic, it can’t be expanded properly—honestly, that road does a fine job considering its humble origins and its physical limitations. It’s a weary road that isn’t what it used to be, and it might have a chip on its “shoulder,” but it works really hard every day; now that I know it, I am comfortable traveling on it.
It seems to me that it would be more accurate—and infinitely more optimistic—to say that familiarity breeds comfort. Lord knows we all could use some enlarging of our comfort zones. That comfort zone can be darned confining at times, especially when you let it dictate whom you meet. The example of a road becoming comfortable is a very broad, vague one; I use it in place of the many stories I could tell of folks whom I feared a bit at first, people who made my heart skip in a worried way, people who turned out to be real blessings. Often, they were the very people I was trying to remain distant from…the people I was avoiding by taking already familiar alternate routes. Not all of these people have blessed me by becoming great friends; some of them have turned out to be burdens of sorts, and truthfully, a handful of them still inspire in me the urge to hide. But by and large, they’ve taught me valuable things; they’ve expanded my comfort zone considerably. I still have a long way to go, but I’m hopeful now that God’s big plan for me will include many more very necessary trips to the outskirts of my comfort zone and beyond.
And when I go there, I’ll be right where He wants me to be.
How about you? Have you strayed from your comfort zone lately? I recommend it.
Well, contempt for loved ones isn’t good, nor healthy. But that wasn’t what I was thinking about yesterday, as I was driving to look at a small, green, wooden chair that someone was selling on craigslist. (Bought it, love it—thanks, B!) I was thinking, as I drove—in that wondrous, silent refuge that is my car when I’m alone in it—I was thinking that familiarity gets a bad rap.
I was thinking this because I was driving across a bridge that I’d never used until about 7 years ago. When I first had to use that bridge, when it was undeniably the best way to get to a place where I needed to go, I feared the bridge. It was new, I hadn’t traveled it, I hadn’t crossed it and traversed the mysterious places it leads to… it was unfamiliar. And I did not care for it. Then, one brave day, I drove across the bridge, white-knuckled, creeping along in the proper lane, scanning road signs frantically—and I made it to the other side and to my exit. The bridge was, truly, the best route for that particular destination. And then I crossed the bridge again, and again. I even crossed it from the other side. And you know what happened? The bridge became my friend. I grew to like it, to respect it, to understand its purpose the way I could never understand it when I did not know it personally. It wasn’t a perfect bridge, but I appreciated it so much more when I gave it a chance. I was comfortable when crossing the bridge.
There are lots of roads around my town that have the same history with me; I feared them initially, I braved them once or twice, and then they became familiar to me. The roadway I used to fear the most? Now I take it to the zoo whenever I go there; it’s not so bad after all. That road can’t help being dangerous; it wasn’t designed for its current volume of traffic, it can’t be expanded properly—honestly, that road does a fine job considering its humble origins and its physical limitations. It’s a weary road that isn’t what it used to be, and it might have a chip on its “shoulder,” but it works really hard every day; now that I know it, I am comfortable traveling on it.
It seems to me that it would be more accurate—and infinitely more optimistic—to say that familiarity breeds comfort. Lord knows we all could use some enlarging of our comfort zones. That comfort zone can be darned confining at times, especially when you let it dictate whom you meet. The example of a road becoming comfortable is a very broad, vague one; I use it in place of the many stories I could tell of folks whom I feared a bit at first, people who made my heart skip in a worried way, people who turned out to be real blessings. Often, they were the very people I was trying to remain distant from…the people I was avoiding by taking already familiar alternate routes. Not all of these people have blessed me by becoming great friends; some of them have turned out to be burdens of sorts, and truthfully, a handful of them still inspire in me the urge to hide. But by and large, they’ve taught me valuable things; they’ve expanded my comfort zone considerably. I still have a long way to go, but I’m hopeful now that God’s big plan for me will include many more very necessary trips to the outskirts of my comfort zone and beyond.
And when I go there, I’ll be right where He wants me to be.
How about you? Have you strayed from your comfort zone lately? I recommend it.
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