Tag: Belhaven

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Waters Walking

The other day my car was being repaired. I had it in the shop for an oil pump problem. I say it’s a car; maybe it’s a truck. I don’t know. It’s a twenty-two year old Jeep Cherokee with crank windows. Nothing fancy and that’s what I like about it. It was cold that morning so I put on my insulated boots with warm packs placed in each toe like hunters do, bundled up with my fingerless gloves, packed my painting kit, and set out walking around the block.

I saw a few people who might have thought I was indigent. I know the look. I’m loaded down like all I have is what I’m carrying. These things are my most valuable possessions. Walkers pass by not saying anything when, if I were dressed nicer and not for painting in the cold, they would probably say hi. I saw some people who recognized me and wandered why I was in the neighborhood. I explain I got married last March and we live around the corner. I’m out looking for something to paint. Things always look different on foot. Nothing is speaking to me yet. Then I come upon a painter friend of mine. We chat about the things going on in each of our lives and I reach down to pet her three legged dog. We say our goodbyes and as they are walking away I see a painting there.

I make a quick mental sketch of her and her companion. I begin setting up. I turn my AirPods on and begin listening to shuffling music. A car stops and a person is looking for some keys that may or may not have been dropped nearby. No luck. A young lady stops with a Polaroid camera and explains she is working on a series of photos depicting the neighborhood. Another car stops to drop off a meal on wheels to an older person. Then I get a call from my mechanic who says he’s going to need another day to finish the oil pump job. It’s okay. It’s all okay.

It’s been a little over two hours and I’m nearly through. It’s best not to get too through. I take a phone photo and post it like I always do. It feels good but I am not sure if it’s the painting or the process of seeing; but it does feel good. Then, I’m flooded with another feeling that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. All because an oil pump broke and a walk around the block.

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Passers-By

Once watering some tomato transplants two men–one young, one old–paused while driving by and said that an injured puppy was in the street three blocks east. After assuring him the puppy would be taken care of, they thanked me and zoomed off leaving me stunned and puzzled; after all, why hadn’t they picked up the animal? I never looked real hard for the puppy, but took care of my tomatoes and hoped for the best, as I always do. My tomatoes failed (I never have been good with them), but I heard the puppy found a home. I took that as a lesson in priorities and sallied forth with my life; I really had no other option.

The garden I tend—I can’t call it my garden, since it doesn’t grow on my property—is on the corner of a busy intersection in an old neighborhood in Jackson, Mississippi. The traffic is comprised of people in automobiles, on bikes and on foot, though on the rare occasion a couple of kids on skateboards will rattle by. Though nobody on foot, running or walking has ever asked me for directions (nothing would astound me more) many people drive by seeking directions, the intended destination usually a nearby restaurant, a street in the neighborhood or (most often) “How in the hell do I get on I-55?”, in which case I point them down to Greymont and spare them most of the hilly East Fortification roller-coaster.

I often see the same people pass by in the garden, and we most usually greet, more because it’s more awkward not to say something than for any other reason, but I don’t know them; they don’t stop and say, “Hi, I’m So-and-so who lives on Such-and-Such”, and all they know about me is that I grow flowers. Some few greet me by name, which puts me at a great disadvantage which I mask with brave cordiality. “Hello!” I’ll say. “How are you?” The most common response is a vague wave, though I might get an over-the-shoulder “Great!” It boils down to is a question of identity, of barriers. Who are we to one another, and why?

I tend a garden on a city corner, and the world passes by, leaving me deep in marigolds and hoping the streetlights don’t fail.