Park Rules

Today a long fibrous cloud trailed aslant across the western sky like a piece of pink cotton candy. It watched me cross in the early morning light using my new rule of avoiding intersections. When I can see lights on cars, I make myself walk twenty or so feet from the intersection. Then I cross, always, always facing the oncoming lights. No guarantees, though. The face can only face in one direction at a time. The ears have to make up for the other two hundred or so degrees.

The twenty-foot rule is a month or so old. Other rules took years to establish and, through obedience, have lasted. First-foot rule: start running as soon as the first foot hits gravel. The crunch triggers the run. This rule governs stopping too: only stop when the foot hits gravel again on the other side of a concrete drainage culvert (the track has four of these, plus four sidewalk access slabs). These slabs and culverts mark sections for stopping and starting.

And so on. Never walk past anyone; always jog past. Never jog or walk clockwise. It's always: west, south, east, north. Some go counter to this, and I always give them a nod when first passing, then I can ignore them. I follow them as a kind of ownership of my trips, running and walking the pea gravel. My park, my jog, my rules.

Of course, the park has its own rules. No bikes on the track. This gets disobeyed regularly because kids can't resist hoping up on the track on their way somewhere else. The park does not attract kids: no climbing structures, padded surface, swings, tables and benches for parents and sitters, no pavilions, courts, or diamonds. Just a broad stretch of open green that attracts adults: owners, fliers, throwers, watchers, sun bathers. Nothing of bright plastic or metal to attract young eyes and muscles.

Two redwood poster boards display the park rules. No alcohol, no weapons, no driving, no bikes and so on. No golfing: a rule that gets broken often by young men who just can't resist the broad, open parade ground in the middle, it's look all that of a course, only lacking a dab of smooth manicured green on the far end with it's irresistable little black cup. Scofflaws, they get out there to drive and pitch. Crossing the open, I frequently find lost balls. I golf out there, but with disks, and not any more. My shoulder gave out from too much whipping around. The driving, aiming for trash cans and tree trunks did it in. I miss catching the southwest wind, so dependable and uplifting.

Besides it says, "No golfing" on the rule board. Well, on one of the boards. The other one is partially covered up by a piece of cardboard duct-taped on. It reads: "Found (underlined) Two brown and white puppies (puppies underlined)." And a phone number. The signage covers the lower 6 or so rules. Next to it there's a car key somebody found and left on the redwood ledge. All three waiting for their owner to wander over to the sign, looking for a rule to follow, and finding. "Hey. Look honey! Here's our puppies!!" Or, "Here's my key. Dang, now I have two of them."