At three o'clock in the afternoon on the very last day of its life, June underwent a deathbed conversion and, hoping for salvation, poured forth blissful sunshine upon the Long Meadow. (At least until it tossed forth a final storm two hours later.) These day campers set forth into the fresh new summer, having been instructed to form "two neat lines" as they were unleashed upon the greensward. As if!
You know how it is after days of rain: You probably shouldn't come out yet, but you just need a good stretch.
This wormie on the Parade Grounds was fully the length of my size-10 ladies' sneaker, even while not fully extended, which means that if he grows at all, he will need to shop at the Big'n'Tall Worms Shop. I placed him considerately on some grass, where he had a better chance of rethinking his asphalt compulsion and making a meal for one of the countless yodeling robins nearby.
It was one of those Prospect Park walks that coalesced around no particular theme other than random cool stuff, starting with this school project abandoned inside one of the little colonnaded shelters at the Park Circle.
You could really see the logic ticking: I got my grade, what'm I gonna do with this thing anyway, and my buddies want to go play. Screw it. But...it's cool enough that I'll prop it here for display. I can't quite figure out the theme of the diorama; it may be a cross between a farm and an ampitheatre.
This magnolia was the cover girl for my calendar last year; here it is looking east instead of west, with a haze of spring green in the distance. Yesterday's beating rain was brutal on petals.
But it was even harder on this old willow. The damage was so fresh that you could smell the sap in the torn trunk. An egret hung out on the fallen branches.
Right next to the real lake, a duck enjoyed the privacy of his own boutique lake in this vast puddle.
Yesterday, one branch offered slim hope under cold, dismal skies.
This morning, a warming sun danced on the lake, and everything started getting all frisky.
This tiny lady forged ahead with her walker/shopping cart at a caterpillar's pace, as the Lycra bikin' dudes streaked past, pumped from their rip down the West Drive hill. I said good morning, and she admired the weather, in a resonant, Russian-inflected voice. Feeling a bit ashamed of my morning's interior monologue (which had centered on whining to myself about my arthritis and my prospects for an eventual hip replacement), I told her she was my inspiration for the day. She flashed a big smile: "I give you heart, yes?"
Yes.
Thirty minutes after the official beginning of Spring 2009, a squall of snow fell onto the daffodil buds along Prospect Park Southwest. This sort of reality testing is why I don't get all excited about "official" anything. Note, however, the green haze of shrubbery in the background.
Sometimes unofficial confirmation is the best kind.
Last Monday, was it really 10 degrees and blowing drifts of snow? At today's Greenmarket, the crowd seemed ebullient as the sun warmed Grand Army Plaza to 70 or so.
The forced hyacinths were out, and so were the tulips, and so were the bees. My borrowed camera, Daughter's little pink Coolpix, turns out to have some pretty kick-butt macro powers;
check out the nectar-sucking Double Bee Action.
People on cell phones were mostly telling their friends where they were, and how wonderful it was.
We took a quick jaunt over to the Long Meadow, through the mysterious portal of the Endale Arch.
The Long Meadow was muddy, hazy, and dotted with grateful souls shedding their winter selves.
Do not for a moment think that I was brave enough to venture forth to Prospect Park in this particularly frigid snow episode. That honor goes to intrepid marathoner and blogbuddy Michael, who posted these lovely shots on the blog of the Prospect Park Track Club. Presumably he and his fellow runners have been charging around in the tooth-shattering cold and knee-high drifts; I confess to not having set foot inside the park in days.
Partly because I'm in mourning--for my trusty PowerShot camera. After several years of brutally hard use (the kind associated with toddlers, not seasoned shutterbugs, thanks to my clumsiness and absent-mindedness), it has apparently met its end (thanks to an even clumsier cat who knocked it to the floor). The little motor that pushes the lens in and out when the lens cover retracts has died. For awhile, it was merely cranky, and would respond to a good sharp whack. Now it just groans feebly and says "wheep, wheep" like an expiring guinea pig. I bought it used on E-bay for $158 and it has performed nobly, taking every picture on this blog not credited to another (like this lovely snow shot, also by Michael, above). Thanks to a ruthless Household Spending Embargo (yes, we are personally responsible for the recession), it will not be replaced any time soon, but Daughter has generously offered to lend me her birthday Nikon point-and-shoot.
On one condition, however: "Mom, you are not allowed to use it while lying in the dirt." It is scary when they're only 13 and they already know you so well.
One more thing about Michael: He has a blog, "ChickenUnderwear.com" (or "What You Do Not Know Because You Are Not Me") and this entry is one of the best things I've ever read about Prospect Park and how it touches our lives. Thanks for sharing, and please don't get frostbite out there.
On a 14-degree morning, the lake was very, very frozen here at the Lullwater Bridge.
One patch of open water held a cluster of unlucky ducks and a chilly swan.
As I crunched along to the lake, I was alone except for an older guy in a shabby parka, who was toting a scruffy shopping bag. He registered on my Possible Pest Meter (bag, scruffy, alone) but not on my Danger Meter (older, slow-moving); we passed one another wordlessly in opposite directions before the Boat House.
Then as I rounded the Boat House corner, I saw what he'd been doing with the contents of the bag: The ground was laden with a feast for birds, and not your dumb chunks of old bread, either. This looked like quality chow, and the hunger-crazed birds were oblivious to my presence, cavorting outside this urban Audubon Center like starlets at an Oscar after-party. I offered many mental apologies to the Bird Bag Man, who catered this...
BLURRY BIRD EXTRAVAGANZA!
Okay, keep in mind, these guys were all within the same 2 square yards in the same 5 minutes this morning, so close that even I could snap them with my trusty crap zoom lens.
Are you a Song Sparrow? Well, are ya, punk? [No, according to two helpful commenters, he's a White-Throated Sparrow.]
Yikes! Is that actually a visible red(dish) belly patch (down near the legs) on the preposterously-named Red-Bellied Woodpecker? (Yes, there is also a Red-Headed Woodpecker, but how about naming this species something more intuitive, like Red-Capped Woodpecker, or maybe Other Kind of Red-Headed Woodpecker?)
It's a sin to kill a Mockingbird because their dying words would be, "Kiss my ass!" (sung in 20 languages).
Blue Jay casts a beady eye on the competition.
A dove couple got in on the action.
I love his (her?) expression, it's, like, "OMG! Yummies!"
And of course, we can't have sparkling snow without these guys. Sparrow looks dubious. Just 'cause they're red and crested, they walk in like they own the joint!
Hands frozen and brain totally bird-buzzed, I headed back under the Cleft Ridge Span. That bundled-up human turned out to be a charming English lady, and I warmed my hands petting her English Bull Terrier (a "Spuds Mckenzie" dog) and doe-eyed Rottweiler mix. Altogether, not bad for a morning when I'd wished to stay warm in bed.
This afternoon's wet snow clung, at least for awhile, to everything, creating just about the most gorgeous "winter wonderland" thing I've ever seen in the city. Walking around near the park's West Drive, I was stunned to realize that everything was exactly as beautiful as everything else. You didn't have to look for a "great angle," or avert your eyes from anything, to be overwhelmed with loveliness. I actually longed to find a dead rat, because it would have been so elegant, peaceful and snow-cloaked, each whisker outlined in white, and then I could have really proven my point.
The path was a mystical white tunnel.
Cyclists seemed magical. So did fence posts.
Dead leaves were like jewels.
So were living ones.
Tree bark, also gorgeous.
Back out on the sidewalk, who knew it was wife-beater T-shirt weather?
On the streets outside the park, it was a dark afternoon of remorseless frozen rain and slush, utterly wretched. Just inside, it was eerie and strangely beautiful.
The faint streetlamps brought to mind the tales of the will-o'-the-wisp, a ghostly creature of flickering light that leads travelers astray at dusk.
These creatures seem fond of leading the unwary toward bogs and marshes. Mine brought me to the side of the lake, where not a lamp flickered in the gloaming mist.
I haven't been getting to the park every day by a long shot, and strange to say, this little walk was exhilarating, in spite of the ankle-deep slush.
As the snow swirled down this morning, I felt an irresistible need to visit the Park's own Shangri-La: the remote and isolated Vale of Cashmere.
Great idea! It was gorgeous, silent, and almost untracked.
Enjoy. And just keep telling yourself, "This is a five-minute walk from Flatbush Avenue."
The snow-cloaked branches were a shock; the last time I came here, the pond and its environs were a neglected, verdant swamp.
Note to gardener self: Invest heavily in bamboo for "winter interest."
Nearby, the chilly existential formality of the rose-less "Rose Garden" took on a whole new kind of emptiness in a haze of falling flakes. (Here's the green, summer version; both seem like a good place for the newly minted ghost of Patrick McGoohan to roam with a beach ball.)
As I headed back, I enjoyed a rare city privilege: stepping in virgin snow. Well, at least briefly; in a few yards, my feet met the crisscrossing tracks of a dog and his person, already filling with soft white powder.
