Four big, white, puffy clouds drift to the south across the vibrant blue sky over Sonoma Mountain. The sun is slowly beginning to set behind the houses across the street. The patchy grass waves, the sandy puddles ripple, and the rusty swings sway in the ferocious wind. The crunchy brown leaves skitter across the asphalt, scratching and tumbling their way toward the family playing on the bars at the place I used to call “Airport Park.” It’s a typical sight on a winter day in Petaluma, but it’s not a typical day – its several degrees colder than usual. There is a chance of snow tonight; there is a chance for hope. In the back of their minds, everyone knows it’s not going to snow, but many still dare to dream. Snow is a sign of hope and innocence and peace and love and youthfulness. The simple idea of having snow for the first time in nine years brings the whole town to life. This park, however, seems rather dead.
“Mommy! Mommy, I did it!” cries the little girl as she pulls herself into a sitting position on top of the bar. Her mother claps as her brother scowls and complains about the cold, seeming to crawl into a shell as he ducks even further into his big windbreaker. Soon after the girl’s glorious victory, the three of them go home, leaving only the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind and the long-distance track kids panting as they run back and forth repeatedly on the path behind me. One boy grunts, “I can’t do this, man!” as he nears the top of the memorial hill to my left. In one of the houses across the street, a tuba player that could definitely use some more practice plays the same song over and over again. Wiseman Park is an ordinary suburban park to many people, but it holds so many memories for me.
I used to come here with my nanny, Sharon, and she would push me on those creaky old swings and pop out to scare me at the bottom of the fading yellow twisty slide. Then, after we played, we would walk over to the Two-Niner Diner to get some fries. One time, Sharon convinced a pilot to let me sit in his plane while he explained how it worked; it was one of the coolest memories of my early childhood. That gray plane with two black stripes down the side is not something that I think I will forget anytime soon. On the other side of the park are the two fields where I used to play soccer back in elementary school. Patchy, muddy, uneven – these fields have been the cause of many accidental tumbles and muddy uniforms. Everything is the same as it was back then; it is welcoming. The swings still invite me to fly to the sky, the monkey bars still beg me to swing over the hot lava, and the little stone walls still tell me to pretend I am a gymnast on a balance beam. It is a place for fun, a place for freedom, a place for memories.
I see only a few sets of footprints in the wet sand. Upon closer inspection, it is easy to see that they are mostly small prints, those of children. Some lead to the smaller play structure with the twin slides and the remains of faded graffiti. Others lead to the larger area with the twisty slide, the swinging monkey bars, and the baby swings. All of the footprints avoid the massive puddles under parts of both structures and the whole big swing area. As I study these footprints, a new family walks up, this time a little girl and her parents. They just pass through, and the little girl runs off chasing her mom and squealing, “I’m gonna get you!” The track team is gone now too, and I am left alone with the silence.
A huge gust of wind takes me by surprise, almost knocking me over as I stand on top of my bench to observe a little plane as it prepares for takeoff, going faster and faster until the wheels finally leave the ground and it flies out of sight. After the plane has disappeared, I catch a glimpse of the gigantic puddle that is perpetually over the hill in the winter. As I jog over to see how deep it is now (at least a foot and a half), my shoes are soaked by the grass, and begin to squish with every step. It doesn’t matter, though; I cannot feel the cold the water brings because my whole body is already half-numb. I must leave now because I can’t move my fingers and the sun is barely visible.
I close my eyes and take one last deep breath; I can feel the moisture in the air. It smells like it always does after it rains: it smells fresh and sweet and clean, like grass and flowers and spring. Mixed in with this is the smell of barbeque from one of the nearby houses, making my mouth water. The vivid variations in the colors of the play structure draw my attention: there are bright blues, reds, and yellows, along with worn blacks and beiges, all darkened by the long shadows of the trees over the whole park. Cars cruise by on the street behind me and airplanes take off and land in the airport in front of me. Several couples pass by with dogs, but only bits and pieces of their conversations are discernable. It seems as if this assault on the senses would be overwhelming and chaotic, but it’s not.
My little bench under the trees is a sanctuary, a place where I can escape from the rest of the world – school and chores, drama and anger, stress and fear – and just relax. This sanctuary is made even better by the possibility of it being dusted in a light layer of crisp, white snow. This small miracle could give me a chance to be a child again, if only for a moment. From a distance, Wiseman seems like an ordinary park, but it is easy for me to see how truly magical it can be; it is a place where anyone can be a child.
-Erin
“Mommy! Mommy, I did it!” cries the little girl as she pulls herself into a sitting position on top of the bar. Her mother claps as her brother scowls and complains about the cold, seeming to crawl into a shell as he ducks even further into his big windbreaker. Soon after the girl’s glorious victory, the three of them go home, leaving only the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind and the long-distance track kids panting as they run back and forth repeatedly on the path behind me. One boy grunts, “I can’t do this, man!” as he nears the top of the memorial hill to my left. In one of the houses across the street, a tuba player that could definitely use some more practice plays the same song over and over again. Wiseman Park is an ordinary suburban park to many people, but it holds so many memories for me.
I used to come here with my nanny, Sharon, and she would push me on those creaky old swings and pop out to scare me at the bottom of the fading yellow twisty slide. Then, after we played, we would walk over to the Two-Niner Diner to get some fries. One time, Sharon convinced a pilot to let me sit in his plane while he explained how it worked; it was one of the coolest memories of my early childhood. That gray plane with two black stripes down the side is not something that I think I will forget anytime soon. On the other side of the park are the two fields where I used to play soccer back in elementary school. Patchy, muddy, uneven – these fields have been the cause of many accidental tumbles and muddy uniforms. Everything is the same as it was back then; it is welcoming. The swings still invite me to fly to the sky, the monkey bars still beg me to swing over the hot lava, and the little stone walls still tell me to pretend I am a gymnast on a balance beam. It is a place for fun, a place for freedom, a place for memories.
I see only a few sets of footprints in the wet sand. Upon closer inspection, it is easy to see that they are mostly small prints, those of children. Some lead to the smaller play structure with the twin slides and the remains of faded graffiti. Others lead to the larger area with the twisty slide, the swinging monkey bars, and the baby swings. All of the footprints avoid the massive puddles under parts of both structures and the whole big swing area. As I study these footprints, a new family walks up, this time a little girl and her parents. They just pass through, and the little girl runs off chasing her mom and squealing, “I’m gonna get you!” The track team is gone now too, and I am left alone with the silence.
A huge gust of wind takes me by surprise, almost knocking me over as I stand on top of my bench to observe a little plane as it prepares for takeoff, going faster and faster until the wheels finally leave the ground and it flies out of sight. After the plane has disappeared, I catch a glimpse of the gigantic puddle that is perpetually over the hill in the winter. As I jog over to see how deep it is now (at least a foot and a half), my shoes are soaked by the grass, and begin to squish with every step. It doesn’t matter, though; I cannot feel the cold the water brings because my whole body is already half-numb. I must leave now because I can’t move my fingers and the sun is barely visible.
I close my eyes and take one last deep breath; I can feel the moisture in the air. It smells like it always does after it rains: it smells fresh and sweet and clean, like grass and flowers and spring. Mixed in with this is the smell of barbeque from one of the nearby houses, making my mouth water. The vivid variations in the colors of the play structure draw my attention: there are bright blues, reds, and yellows, along with worn blacks and beiges, all darkened by the long shadows of the trees over the whole park. Cars cruise by on the street behind me and airplanes take off and land in the airport in front of me. Several couples pass by with dogs, but only bits and pieces of their conversations are discernable. It seems as if this assault on the senses would be overwhelming and chaotic, but it’s not.
My little bench under the trees is a sanctuary, a place where I can escape from the rest of the world – school and chores, drama and anger, stress and fear – and just relax. This sanctuary is made even better by the possibility of it being dusted in a light layer of crisp, white snow. This small miracle could give me a chance to be a child again, if only for a moment. From a distance, Wiseman seems like an ordinary park, but it is easy for me to see how truly magical it can be; it is a place where anyone can be a child.
-Erin
This essay is absolutely superb!
ReplyDeleteIn the first paragraph I like how for every noun you used, you not only used an adjective to describe it, but also a verb; that helps the reader get a more clear picture in their head.
I too have gone to Wiseman park all my life, and reading your description i got the flashbacks to my younger days.
Also in your last paragraph, you balanced pairs, really show how much of a sanctuary the park is.
GREAT JOB ERIN!
-Sharendeep