Rare Birds of NYC

In early summer NYC parks come into full leaf.  They dot the city and glisten like emeralds dropped into a wastebasket of concrete and exhaust.  These parks hold rare flea market finds to patient observers. 

Last week, bleary eyed and weary from a recent move into a fifth floor walkup, I took my morning walk in the Heather Garden.  On a bench someone had scattered birdfeed.  Amidst the drab sparrows flitted a fluorescent green and yellow parakeet.  He pecked at the bird seed, oblivious to his beauty, all the more stunning against the brown camouflage of the sparrows.  I approached cautiously so as not to scare him away.  As I neared, the wild sparrows flew away with instinctive distrust.  But the tame parakeet, accustomed to human presence, remained pecking at the bird seed.  I neared to within a foot, yet he did not budge.  Poor creature, I thought, he must have been someone's pet.  And he is doomed.  Such a rare beauty will not last through the harsh winter.

Today as I exited Central Park on W72nd St., I stopped short.  Sitting on a window ledge of one of those magnificent doorman buildings (what do they look like inside?) blazed a powerful red parrot.  He had muscular talons that gripped the ledge securely.  Emerald, blue, and white feathers streaked across his wings.  His eyes had been made up with brilliant blue and white shadow that circled them like a target.  A passerby stood giddily near the great bird while his wife tried to take a photo.  The owner, a man mildly past middle age, said anxiously, don't get too close.  The passerby paid no attention.  The parrot ruffled his wings, and swiped at the passerby with his great hooked beak.  I told you, don't get too close.  He can do real damage, the owner intoned angrily.  The passerby looked sheepish.  His wife hurriedly snapped the photo, and the two rushed off.  I asked, how old is he?  The owner replied, forty-five.  I thought, if I'd been with anyone (bird, beast or human) for that long, I might also become angry when a stranger fails to heed requests for respectful treatment.

That got me thinking about Poochini.  Once, when we were first getting to know each other, we had walked to the Bethesda Fountain.  The pair of swans that used to come through Central Park in early spring were paddling on the pond.  All of the sudden there rose a tremendous squawking and hissing.  A woman's toy poodle had fallen into the water close to one of the swans.  The bird had risen clear out of the water, extending her powerful wings, beating them with fury, and pecking at the poor dog.  The woman frantically kneeled by the side of the pond.  After several unsuccessful attempts she was able to scoop out the dog.  I hugged Poochini closely.  That was when I learned to beware of angry swans.    

Twilight Walk

This blog is staying in The Heights.  For three months I've been having an affair with Brooklyn, attempting to  leave The Heights for a coop on the other side of the tracks.  For three months I've been trying to convince myself that it's the right thing to do.  But sometimes the right thing falls through, and you pick up the pieces and move on. And sometimes the right thing turns out to be dead wrong.  Suffice it to say that the deal fell through, and I'm nursing bruised feelings toward a coop board that wasted $1000 of my hard earned cash.  It seemed like the place held the key to lower housing costs, more financial security, and freedom to write.  Even though I met all the requirements, the coop board turned me down without explanation in a curt "sorry for the inconvenience" rejection letter.

So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden.  Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive.  The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light.  My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight.  The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey.  And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight.  The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did.  Poochini lay in my lap like a baby.  I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air.  It almost worked.  After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring.  Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street).  Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn?  That's been done.  And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.    

Where the Bees Are

When I need to escape, I go to The Cloisters.  I've been there so many times that these days I make a cursory pass by the unicorn tapestries, skip the rest of the collection, and head to the medieval herb garden in the Bonnefont Cloister.  I forget about wrinkles, skin cancer, or sunspots, and sit in direct sunlight on the worn wooden bench that stands along the wall facing the Hudson.  The bench is so long that its middle has been boughed downward by the elements and thousands of visitors before me.  Potted plants line up in front of the bench.  I know they are Mediterranean plants, meant to evoke Southern France, Spain, and Italy.  But to me they are also Californian plants.  The rosemary, oregano, olive, fig, orange, oleander, jasmine, lemon, and pomegranate are the same ones that grow in abundance in my mother's garden.  Each fall, I look forward to a big box of pomegranates picked from the tree that has produced these fruits since my childhood.  My mother carefully boxes them up, sends them cross country to me, and I spend chilly evenings extracting the seeds, each a ruby.  Every winter, another box full of lemons, miniature suns tenfold juicier than store bought fruit, arrives.  I have my own jasmine which I try unsuccessfully to coax into blossom in the darkness of my New York apartment.  So, in the quiet of The Cloisters (even school children lower their voices here) I sit near these plants that remind me of home.  Last weekend, having spent several hours in the herb garden and feeling like myself again, I exited through the Cuxa cloister.  Near the fountain in its center bloomed lavender flowers alive with bees.  I had thought all summer that the bees were fewer in number this year, that they had chosen somewhere else to make honey.  I leaned closer to the flowers:  at long last I had found the bees.  Perhaps the recent cool weather had helped them wake up.  Heading home through the Heather Garden, I walked past the passion flowers, which during the heat wave had wilted and hung forlorn on their vines.  Now they had unfurled their petals.  On each sat one or two bees staggering in the pollen and drunkenly rejoicing in their luck.        

Extremes

Sometimes the extremes in this city make me do a double take.  The other evening in the Heather Garden the Pooch and I were lolligagging on the central path and enjoying the first cool evening since God knows when.  I gazed at the roses.  Pooch was doing what he always does:  looking for a spot that he hasn't yet peed on.  Along came a woman in noise canceling head phones.  She ploughed passed me at warp speed, so close that the current of her misdirected anger made my head spin. I was still recovering when, at the end of the path, she yelled over her shoulder, welcome to the public garden loser, you just ruined my evening!  I bent to scratch Pooch's head, which makes me feel better when faced with irrational behavior that's best forgotten.  A few nights later, I exited the subway at 190th St.  It was past 10PM.  Ahead of me an old man struggled to pull a rolling cart full of groceries up the stairs.  A woman rushed passed me.  She bent low over the cart and pulled up a bouquet of crimson flowers.  Having slipped to the bottom, the flowers had been sticking outside the cart and were unknowingly dragged halfway up the stairs by the man.  The woman had rescued them while still in good enough shape to brighten his life.   The woman took one end of the cart and helped the man to the top of the stairs.  My faith in the city renewed, I walked home through a pleasant summer evening, all the while keeping an eye out for skunks (see previous post, "Critters").      

Critters

It's been awhile since I posted an update about the Heather Garden, so here goes.  Summer's growth has reached its zenith in the garden.  The roses are in their second bloom, boasting sprays of pink champagne.  The butterfly bushes are also blooming, but the butterflies are fewer than last summer.  Maybe it's the heat wave that has pounded the city all summer and has made the passion flowers droop in exhaustion.  Too hot for passion, say the butterflies as they languidly beat wings of butter yellow and orange flame.  The little garden snakes, too, have been missing this summer.  Last year, they squiggled across the path, forming commas and corkscrews in front of Poochini and me.  This year, I saw only one, and that was in early spring.  The urban wildlife has burgeoned this summer, and maybe they have eaten the smaller creatures.  Skunks, in particular, have taken over the garden.  The other night, around dusk, Poochini and I turned a corner to face Mr. Skunk five feet in front of us.  He raised his tail, ready to take aim.  I pulled back hard on Poochini's leash.  We froze, as if Mr. Skunk had been a cobra loaded with lethal poison.  The woodchuck population has also exploded.  They scurry under bushes, their fat bellies round with grass, and remind me of overgrown New York City subway rats (which is saying something).  Then there are the feral cats, fed by neighborhood do-gooders.  One cat, in particular, sits every evening on the hill just outside the dog park fence.  From there, he regally surveys the antics of the dogs.  I wonder, does he wish to join their play, or is he satisfied with his solitary vantage point?

The Look

In the last week the weather has turned hot and muggy.  The flowers in the Heather Garden rejoice in it.  They have scrambled over each other, each vying for attention amidst the profusion of beauty.  Last evening, while walking along the central path, I passed a father photographing his small daughter in front of a burst of roses.  The girl posed with hip thrust to one side, right hand behind her head, confident of being the center of attention. Such drama in a six year old made me smile, and my attention was drawn solely to her.  After I had passed, I turned on impulse for a second look.  Beside the younger daughter an older girl stood with arms crossed.  Hers was a thin and gangly beauty.  The hurt in her eyes remained unveiled even by the prescription glasses that she wore.  I felt as if I had committed the same crime that I had experienced so many times myself.  In this world-- even in the Heather Garden-- the spotlight is occupied not by the most worthy but by those who feel entitled to it.  To avoid a lifetime of hurt, one must have the courage now and then to steal the spotlight away from those for whom narcissism comes more naturally.

Pink Snow

Yesterday, while on his evening walk, The Poocherooni reminded me why we get along so well:  we're just alike.  He dawdles.  I dawdle.  We remind each other to look, really look, at the world.  The dogwoods have been losing their blossoms this week.  The petals have been falling like pink snow.  They blanket the sidewalk at one end of the Heather Garden.  Last night, The Pooch stuck his nose to the ground as if in a trance, his path sinuous as he traced S's in the petals with his nose.  I had no choice but to admire the last of this spring's dogwood blossoms.  This morning, The Poocherooni had to sniff recently upturned earth underneath a tree.  As he did so, a bird trilled like a flute above us.  In the tree perched a cardinal, calling with all his strength to a potential mate, his red plummage made more dramatic by the contrasting emerald leaves.  In this world there are sad, tactless people full of venom.  They will tell you that you're not competitive, that you're not good enough, that they don't want you (even though they don't bother to take the time to know anything about you).  This happened to me yesterday.  After a bout of self pitying, I went into the Heather Garden.  The sight of water droplets on grass made brilliant green by rain shot the funk to hell.  I have conclused that the battle between the dark forces in the universe is not one of good vs. evil, but one of  venomed people (Pessimists:  The Venomed Ones) who try to squash the zest for life in the rest of us (Optimists:  The Zesty Ones).  As long as I have a place to walk like the Heather Garden, and for as long as I have the company of a soul like The Pooch, the Venomed Ones will lose.  Here's proof.  This morning in the subway, I looked down.  Someone had littered. A subway card lay abandoned on the ground.  The back of the card faced up and the word beaming toward me read:  Optimism.

Evening Walk

Tonight I went for an early evening walk with The Pooch in the Heather Garden.  It was nearing the end of dusk.  The sun still cut a slice of gold at the horizon.  The sky was cloudless.  Its upper reaches had darkened to ceramic blue.  We sat on the Linden Terrace, Pooch on my lap cuddling his head against my chest.  He has been sick for months.  Most recently his lungs had filled up with fluid from an overdose of steroids.  Then all he wanted to do was to be next to me, even though I wanted nothing more than to see him running around on his own, forgetting about me.  But tonight, on a lower dose of medication, he was feeling better.  We were alone on the Linden Terrace except for the Old Russian Couple, sitting closely together on a bench behind us.  We watched the horizon nuzzle into darkness and then headed home through the garden.  Though the flowers had lost the brilliance of day, their scents had magnified.  I stood on a stone and buried my nose in the lilacs, breathing deeply until my senses were overwhelmed.  This is bliss.  

Spring Inventory

Spring has been spreading its magic over New York City for the past three weeks.  Today, on the way to the dog park, I breathed in the heady scent of lilacs, stronger than the hyacinths (which bloomed last week).  The arrival of the lilacs always brings a mixture of pleasure and sadness.  Lilacs have the loveliest of scents, but as late bloomers they herald the end of spring.  So, here at long last, is my spring inventory.  The daffodils that appeared first have for the most part withered away, except for a few hangers-on in shady spots.  Next came the hyacinths, turning the night-time air to honey.  Then one of the trees in the heather garden turned into white lace.  This was followed by other trees bursting into cotton candy.  The ground cover of the garden has turned into a jungle of green, aflame here and there with lavender and yellow flowers.  The trees overhead have begun to spread a canopy of electric green.  It is a young lime-green, the leaves still small and uncertain about their ability to provide shade.  And, oh, the tulips!  Standing stock straight in a rainbow of beauty:  red, orange, pink, yellow, peach, deepest, darkest purple.  And, of course, the lilacs, whose scent I wish I could capture in a bottle, to release at home during the dark nights of winter.    

Spring Tease

Yesterday and the day before brought an early taste of spring to NYC, roughly two weeks after one of the biggest snowstorms in recent memory brought the city to a halt.  I walked to work under a Caribbean blue sky that lifted my mood with the promise of returning life.  For the last several months, I had been trudging through winter's muted grays, my energy level matching the leaden skies.  But tonight The Pooch and I walked through a heather garden recovering from winter's devastation.  Purple crocuses, the first to bring spring's cheer, had sprung up overnight under one of the gnarled trees. White bluebells dotted both sides of the path like stars.  The Pooch and I sat on the Linden Terrace and watched the sky aflame with sunset.  I was reminded of gentler days, when people walk more slowly and smile more easily, when life's trials flow away more gracefully into memories.  Now the weather threatens to turn cold again.  The weatherman has forecast three days of rain.  But tonight's lighter springtime mood will carry me through.  Nature is trustworthy.  No matter how cold the winter, her rebirth brings an end to all the seriousness, reminding us to rejoice in being alive.      

Warm evening!

Today I walked home for the first time in months. There was no subway service past W168th St. (the A line has a will of its own to which residents of Washington Heights must submit). The weather felt spring-like, so I didn't mind the inconvenience. Neither did I mind the cement colored skies threatening rain. The clouds could have opened into a flood and I still would have rejoiced at being outside and not hunched against the cold. The mild temperatures continued into the evening, when The Pooch (nose still drippy but improved) went walking in an empty Heather Garden. Why weren't others taking advantage of this night? We stood on the Linden Terrrace, the lights on the George Washington Bridge twinkling in the distance. The wind sang through the trees overhead, and for the first time in weeks stirred up hopes for the future: for the spring when new leaves would canopy the sunset wine tasting held annually on the Linden Terrace, for a softer, more graceful time. For the last few weeks, I had felt like a leper-- a runaway cold sore had spread across my face and sprouted satellites on my body. Maybe it was the stress of cold weather, or the stress of taking care of The Pooch, or some other stress. I had told myself that I was fine, but it had taken a certain toll. Tonight , feeling myself again with my face almost back to normal, the wind on the Linden Terrace felt almost gentle.

First Snow

Yesterday we had our first snow of the season, a light dusting that wasn't supposed to stick. But this morning the snow was still hanging around in the Heather Garden. It covered the lamb's ears, outlining them with delicate icing that sparkled silver in the sun. Awhile ago I sighted the last two cardinals of the season. They flitted to and fro, crimson flames amidst the lifeless twigs the trees had become. Now the cardinals are gone, but the sparrows persist. They perch on the backs of benches with their bellies plump in cheerful defiance of winter. A few stalwart roses still try to keep their heads up, but most sag and reveal ragged edges fully aware that they are the last of the season. Soon winter will bring its raw beauty to the Heather Garden.

Late Fall

The Heather Garden is adorned in fall colors-- mature green fading into winter's twiggy brown. The autumn pallette soothes the senses, far from the scream of spring's electric green. The flowers are suitably muted-- light pink roses hang on branches with gently yellowing leaves. And yet, here and there, a spray of color-- bright purple berries that remind me of the flaming red pericanthus berries with which my family used to decorate the Thansgiving table. The passion flowers still cling to the gray stone wall of the Linden Terrace, their wispy lavender petals a reminder of the lasting power of their namesake. Sitting on the terrace, I hear military drumming in the distance. The local Catholic high school band (all girl's, mostly Dominican) is performing Yankee Doodle Dandee. Next weekend Ft. Tryon Park will host the reenactment of the revolutionary Battle of Ft. Washington. Why do people want to recreate man's reason gone awry? But then, that is history.

Water Balloons

This summer is all about water: water falling from the sky (all summer long); water droplets filling the air with humidity; water flowing from public spouts in the playground where children in bathing suits cool off on hot, hot days. But especially, water in balloons. It's all the rage this summer. Children laugh conspiratorially in groups on the corner of 190th and Ft. Washington. They fill up the balloons at the drinking fountain just inside the entrance to the Heather Garden. Then they gang up on the vulnerable ones. The balloons, red, blue and yellow orbs, change shape like ameobas in the children's hands. The children unleash a barrage that arcs up and over the sidewalk, ending in a splishsplash on the pavement. Occasionally, the balloons hone in on a target (a little brother or older sister), and the park fills with squeals of laughter.

Butterflies

The butterflies have returned to the heather garden. They chase each other in pairs or flit about singley, lighting up the garden with a mosaic of colored glass. The lavender is abuzz with overgrown bumblebees. They hide amongst the purple flowers. You have to be careful when running your hand over them to catch the scent. The garden is nearing its peak with layer on layer of green. Purple and yellow flowers contrast intermittent bursts of red, and the roses have been blooming uninterrupted for weeks. The tiger lillies have pounced on the hill near the subway stop, turning it into a field of orange. Children stand with boisterous expectation at the Mr. Softee icecream truck just outside the subway stop, then continue into the park with glee, icecream quickly melting and dripping down their chins. I wish these days could last forever.

Early Summer?

New York is refusing to allow summer in. For weeks we have had clouds and rain. Forecasters have predicted thunderstorms for this evening, and the air sags with humidity. But yesterday, the sun made an appearance, accompanied by a fresh breeze straight off the ocean. I sat near the Heather Garden, and listened to a free concert: a string quartet with the Hudson as the backdrop. Pink roses spray painted the hillside behind me, and I laid on the grass gazing thankfully at the clear blue sky. That evening, the opera man, his denim shirt still stretching over a magnificent beer belly, sat on the hillside in his fold-up chair. As he drank his nightly wine, opera followed the quartet, cascading down the hillside to the Hudson.

Sour Face

While walking in the Heather Garden, I have sometimes passed a thin elderly woman. Her thick white hair is always pulled into a loose ponytail with escaping wisps of hair dangling beside her face. With brows knit in concentration and the corners of her mouth turned abruptly downward at ninety degrees, she appears preoccupied. She walks hurriedly in white running shoes, as if late for an important meeting. Her arms swing forcefully, propelling her onward. Occasionally I see her with a man, whose soft face forms the yang to her hard expression. I have wondered, how could a woman with such a sour face attract friends, let alone a man? But there he is, keeping up with her, though with more relaxation.

The other day was radiant with late spring sun, and I strolled slowly, admiring the freshly sprung roses in the Heather Garden. Along came the woman, full of hustle and bustle. Overcome by the beauty of the garden, she burst out at me, "I've lived here since I was a child!" It surprised me. I had invented stories about her, but not imagined this detail. I replied, "Must have changed a lot." Her simple reply: "Yes, yes it has." And then she was off, as abruptly as ever. Since then, I have noticed her stopping to talk briefly to others. It is something new for her, or perhaps I had failed to notice it before. When I pass her on the street, she continues to walk quickly past, her eyebrows knit tightly together. I try to catch her eye, but since that one occasion have been unsuccessful. It might take another chance encounter in the Heather Garden. The butterfly bushes will soon bloom and timing is everything.

Moon over George Washington Bridge

Tonight as I walked through the heather garden a sliver of a moon hung like a fingernail, or a scythe depending on your political persuasion, over the loops of light of the George Washington Bridge. Two bright stars (planets) twinkled to the bottom right of the moon. I wondered: was it Jupiter? Or Saturn? I hoped at least one of them was Venus. I could use a little love in my life right now. The night was warm for December, though a cool breeze swept off the Hudson. I sucked in my breath, overwhelmed by beauty.

Wine and Opera by the Hudson

In my neighborhood there is a man who goes into the Heather Garden in Fort Tryon Park almost every night just before sunset. He has white hair and wears a faded denim shirt falling precipitously over a prominent belly. He heads to the terrace overlooking the Hudson and the Westside Highway, and unpacks his bag: a full bottle of wine and a radio tuned to opera. On warm nights, he brings a lawn chair and enjoys the view from the lawn sloping down to the terrace. He comes alone, but sometimes finds others (drinking beer) on the terrace. I once remarked to a friend, "How sad, he's always drinking alone." My friend's reply, "Maybe he's happy." I hadn't considered that. Maybe he is happy. There are worse things than drinking wine and listening to opera while the sun sets over the Hudson.

Falling for Good

Fall is here for good. These days I'm wearing a light jacket (although not yet necessary). How I really know fall is here to stay (and winter's not far behind) is by the sounds. Maybe it's a change in the cloud cover. Maybe it's a change in my mentality. But the sounds of fall are crisper, like the apple cider of the season. Planes overhead sound closer. The hum of the traffic from the West Side Highway sounds more like a rumble than a soft current lapping at the banks of the Hudson. The edges of everything become harder, more defined in fall. In preparation for the snap! of winter.