There are times when I wish I had a video camera. Today was one of them.
I went on a roll around the neighborhood this afternoon. Over at the choir college, students were practicing scales. As I passed the church, I could hear the choir singing.
I wanted pumpkin ice cream, but the store has steps. Instead I went to a coffee shop, where college students and skateboarders placed their orders, then stood next to me in an alcove waiting. It's a completely wired place- wifi and caffeine.
I wound up wearing more than drinking my coffee as I headed back through town, pulling over a few times for damage control. I think from now on I'll stick to a cold beverage which is safer.
Then I rolled over to the tennis courts where I hung out a while like a retired wheelchair tennis player does, watching people play. It was really gusty out. A daughter and mom were volleying balls to each other. A tennis instructor worked with a boy, who kept looking at everything but the ball. Four men played doubles tennis- two in their thirties, two in their sixties. Perhaps fathers and sons. Maybe business acquaintances. They warmed up, each side keeping a ball going back and forth on their side of the court, keeping the balls steady despite the wind. I waited for about fifteen minutes, but when they didn't start a match, left.
I went to the drug store where I managed to drop my money while on line. No surprise there. A few people behind me in line grabbed it off the floor and took it. Those are the kinds of things that can lead to bad karma, if you ask me.
No, I don't have a video camera, but it would be interesting sometimes if I did.
I'd like to film the people who wiped the coffee off my cup for me too. The ones who held doors. The ones playing tennis in the wind. Even the tennis balls flying through the air, the trees swaying in the wind, the sun peeking through autumnal leaves, the sidewalks whizzing by beneath my wheelchair, the leaves falling into my lap.
I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts. -Carl Sandburg