The place to be

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.

Sunday evening at Turnbull Lake

The husband and I were hurrying once again. We tried to ignore raindrops spitting on us as we began our belated drive from a family occasion on the opposite side of town. We were likely going to miss the whole thing, I fretted, hadn't got out the door when we'd planned, and we scanned the threatening skies and sped northward. We were forced to stop repeatedly for a plethora of reasons, it seemed. I pondered the wisdom of this decision... Yet we drew closer. Does this number 7 on the map mean that this stretch of the trip is 7 miles long? That can't be right. Shouldn't we be there by now? Is that a splash of rain or a dead bug? And then, familiar faces ahead, silly teenagers that we knew—they were pointing out parking places with excessive drama. Todd maneuvered our big station wagon to the indicated spot (yes, we still drive a station wagon, not an S.U.V.) and turned off the engine.

We leapt out, and I could hear people singing softly; we scurried up a steep backyard slope and saw many human backs standing before us. Small, tall, thick and thin, dark and pale. As unobtrusively as possible, we threaded our way through the many bodies, then landed at a spot near friends. I dropped the quilt I'd been carrying (for sitting on the ground in relative comfort, if we chose), and the kid and I kicked off our shoes. Lyric sheets were shared, and we joined the throng and sent hymns of praise Heavenward. Voices rose together, and we took turns gazing first at a beautiful lake of considerable size, then at the lightening sky.

The moment was approaching, and my son couldn't see; he is only 8, after all, and even shorter than I am. I took his hand and we carefully made our way to one of the picnic tables near the back of the gathering, where a stretch of empty wooden bench offered "high ground" on which my little dude could stand, thus gaining a better view. We watched as a widely varied group of folks began to populate the small beach next to the water. There were statements, explanations, and prayers. Then names were called, and one by one—children, old men, new moms, sheepish teens—each person stepped forward to be reborn. Pastors waited in the water, and the people came to them; some were shy, some confident, a few wiping at their eyes. Of course we applauded each time a soul was renewed. They came up out of that water dripping, and smiles abounded in both the dipped and the watchful. Were you wondering about those gray clouds that had dogged us all the way there? Well, they hovered and teased, but they never wept a single drop.

Afterward there were boat rides, wading, opportunities to feed the lake owners' tame fish, much visiting, and a general hubbub of joy.

From one family event to another, from blood connection to a brotherhood and sisterhood borne of confession and water: How blessed am I to have both.

Kids and creeks

Water and children—they go together like peas and carrots.

The home where I grew up had a seasonal stream in the back yard, small and friendly, that flowed down from a natural spring on the hill behind the yard. My parents still live in that same house; we go southward to visit them, and once there, I often end up losing track of my young son. When I seek him? Inevitably, I locate the kid hunkered down on the edges of that little creek; it still flows there when rains are plentiful.

He has to keep his balance because it's a deep-set trickle, with a grassy slope on either side that descends to the tinkling sparkle. Sometimes he has found a rock to settle on, and sometimes he's just folded his legs on themselves; I find him gazing at the water's bright surface, listening and watching the flow. More often, though, he is hard at work on some small, strange, water-related task: giving an ant a ride on a leaf boat, or building a waterfall, or trying to create a dam for the tiny swimmers in the water. It's very serious work, this water world re-design; I am reminded of a quote by kid expert Maria Montessori, about how "play is the work of the child." It is absolute truth to me, as I watch my little dude build, excavate, place and replace rock ledges, set various insects adrift, toss in sticks to see them float, and rock back on his haunches with satisfaction as he directs the diminutive cascade in his desired direction.

I remember doing the same thing at his age, even when I was older. I could sit by that water and lose myself in the musical sound, in the endless flow to points known and unknown. Toys made their way to the creek, visiting children got muddy there and loved it, and even my fashionable, wasp-waisted Barbie dolls took a few wild rafting rides after heavy storms.

I watch my son staring in that running water, how the sun reflected on its surface also makes light dance across his serious yet delighted face; the creek is alive, still drawing life to it after all these years.

Oceanic thoughts

My son has eyes the color of the sea—
Sometimes a blue-grey, other times grey-green.
The twinkle of the sun upon his gaze?
The sweetest sight my own brown eyes have seen.

We visited the shore last weekend. Cape May, NJ is one of my favorite places. To walk through that town is akin to stepping back in time. Families go biking together, huge farm horses clip-clop along, pulling rubber-necking tourists in buggies, and everywhere you look are grand, elegant Victorian homes decked out in luscious colors and fine details. Not to mention the salty air and the crash of waves upon sand.

There is no other realm like the seashore. It's one of the few places where I can honestly say that my mind is a blank page. In the real world, my brain is in overdrive, poring over plans and thoughts, fighting through moments of confusion or anxiety, trying to extricate facts and memories. But on the sand, watching the waves roll, feeling the power of those countless gallons? Nada. Empty brain.

Majestic, land-locked sights can transport me, too, but they have to be pretty darned huge and impressive to actually clear my mind of thoughts. Rocky Mountains, canyons, waterfalls, yes—but even those beauties do not have the power to erase that the ocean has.

Now we're home, and school has begun. That cleansing salty air is nowhere near. It's up to me to seek that same mental place, here amid the crowded green hills of western PA.

Wish me luck; it ain't gonna be easy.

A different kind of painting

Our recent adventures have taken us into and around the city of Pittsburgh, and the boy and I have rediscovered some of our favorite fountains.

One sits in the outdoor courtyard that lies between the Carnegie Museums of Art and of Natural History. The terraced space has small trees, lots of tables and chairs, and a crashing, thunderous wall of water on one side. Gallon after gallon falls from the top of the wall into a long, shallow pool. Because of the force of water impacting water, this one is quite splashy; to stand near it is to ensure wet feet and face. Aaah.

Another great fountain lies next to the BNY Mellon Building (this used to be called One Mellon Center), on the side next to the USX Tower. There's a lovely little park there, with several bench-laden walkways both sunny and shaded to accommodate foot traffic. The fountain sits in a bright, open area; it looks simple enough, a circular ground-level design with large steps that mimic the slight hill upon which it sits. Standing off-center inside the circle are four tall obelisks, notched on top, and water pours from each and intersects with other waters on the way down. It is deceptively uncomplicated, but intricate and painstakingly planned upon closer inspection. The off-center forms, the notches to facilitate water breakage, the placement in full sun, all make it a hugely successful design. During lunch hour, you'll be lucky to find a bench near this beauty, so I must not be the only one who admires it.

But the crowing glory, my friends? The show-stopper? That would be the fountain at PPG Plaza.

This one, too, might not grab your attention at first. It's a bunch of jets set right into sidewalk level on the large plaza floor. If you happen upon it when the jets are on low power, it will look like a series of baby fountains spurting from the concrete, surrounding a stumpy Washington monument-wannabe. But oh, when it's in full power, the scene is quite different. The jets are amazingly strong, and those cute little waterfalls suddenly grow until they tower over your head, reaching heights up to 15 or more feet. The monument in the center of the jets is a safe haven, misty and dreamy but somewhat protected from direct sprays.

What makes this one most special is that it's interactive, and the actors are children. Any visiting kid, of any age, size, or color, can walk and run right through the whole sopping scene. The constant accompaniment to the splashing, arching, spraying waters is the unrestrained screams and giggles of every dripping child there. It is the perfect summer symphony, a glorious cacophony of delight and joy. Conversation close to the fountain is absolutely drowned, and no one minds. Shouts mingle with the sounds of small, slapping feet, and the water rises, rises, rises as do the shrieks of glee. Rainbows dance everywhere, the shiny black glass of the surrounding towers gleams in a wavy sea of reflections, and it is impossible not to grin like a fool in the midst of it all.

Have you taken any time lately to really appreciate the miracle of water? Its existence, its necessity for sustenance, its power to heal and amaze? Yes, I know, it can flood, too–it can cause damage and death and destruction. It deserves our respect. But I just want to think about the good things it does right now.

Snapshots

Hey, I should've told you all by now that we survived the getaway. No worries. Long trip there, shorter trip back, beautiful weather, and a lovely little inn where we were comfortably housed. Spacious front porches with plenty of rocking chairs, bikes and horse-drawn carriages, sand and surf as far as the eye could see, and a little boy consistently sporting the broadest smile of his life.

One particular small memory will stay with me for some time: I'm sitting under our beach umbrella, comfortable in my low-slung chair, reading a most appropriate title (Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh). The waves are alternately lapping and crashing, other families are set up all around me, gulls are screeching and searching for every available snack, and Todd and my son are out playing in the water. Minutes pass, and I'm half-paying attention, reading a few lines, then gazing out at the water, when I realize that I hear my sweet little boy humming to himself, a tuneless little ditty that he repeats again and again. They must have come in to play in the sand and I didn't even see them, I think to myself.

I look around me, trying to locate my husband and child, following the sound of the innocent little-boy voice as it expresses absolute contentment through music. And then I find the source—and it's not my little guy at all! It's another small boy, not quite as young as mine, and he is sitting near my right side, filling buckets with sand and then dumping them methodically, all the while humming humming humming. His song mingles with the breeze, the gulls, the waves, the melded human voices murmuring and giggling and calling out all around me.

In that moment, I feel so connected to my fellow man. One small boy's song could be another's, one sun-streaked head blends into the rest, our voices form one collective tune as we gather here on the edge of the land to be washed clean and free and unblemished. We're speaking different languages, some are thin while others are fat, we are many different colors and ages and styles. But we've all come essentially for the same reason, seeking respite and renewal. We all are humbled at least somewhat when we stand and surmise the enormous pond before us.

They don't all feel like family—but they sort of are, aren't they?