Summer Revisited

Well, we're a few days into summer vacation, and, as far as I'm concerned, summer itself. I've already started to rediscover "The Great Outdoors". I don't know why I ever spent all of my time locked up in my room (my stuffy, uncomfortably warm, rather stinky room; all of these are my fault) on the computer. This is Alpine Meadows park, by my house:


Broad, penetrating beams of warm sunlight splinter through ephemeral, wispy white clouds, bathing the crisply verdant grass of the soccer fields. The far-reaching light reveals two early patrons of the distant tennis courts at the end of the park opposite to the playgrounds. Nearby is a nearly abandoned baseball diamond; its morose batting cage traps only dust. Trees, domesticated by well-meaning suburbanites, ring the partially fenced perimeter of the entire park, filling in the gaps left by man. Two lonely soccer goals, coated with cracking white paint, stand guard over the pristine moment. These sentinels do not really understand that their timeless charge cannot be defended, yet the world appreciates their valiant effort all the same. In the middle of the park rises majestically its pride and joy: the playground.

The main contraption is a jumble of slides, steps, bars, tunnels, and poles, all painted an ostentatious orange that hopes in vain to rival the sun. At the other end of the smallish mulch-filled area stands the understated swingset. Wanting no part of its brother's grandiosity, it is happy to remain a simple frame carrying four modest swings. Of course, the swingset believes that it is the real center of the park and is willing to let its brother bask in glory; it knows that the park's visitors see beneath appearances and only pretend to adore the orange monstrosity. After all, does not the swingset draw the love of both the smallest infants and the artificially indifferent teenagers? It, for one, would much rather receive affection born of respect than of pity.

One side of the playground is shared by a humble wooden shelter housing a few decrepit picnic tables, adorned with a decade's worth of signatures, notes, and other harmless graffiti. On the short ramp connecting the concrete floor of the shelter with the playground, errant mulch mixes with granules from the nearby sandbox. Rising above the perilous shifting sands of the fifty square foot box are two shovel-dumper combinations, the same color as the playground, mounted to swivel seats. Adjacent to the shelter on the opposite side, a once-proud shed of dark brown corrugated steel, padlocked in the front and badly dented by an inebriated motorist in the back, hides the games and supplies that will soon occupy and amuse the children dropped off by their parents at the day camp. From the final side of the shelter, a long, sinuous gravel pathway leads up to the tiny parking lot on the side street.

The colors of the scene are few and powerful. High noon approaches and the moment is nearly lost. The sun, smiling fatherly over his domain, beats on.