Bennett Park
Set at the location of Ft. Washington, for those of you who are interested in history, at the top of a slight hill… well, a tad bit more than a slight hill when you are lugging a shoulder bag, a dog bag and being pulled by a terrier in the opposite direction. I’d like to say you can see for miles… but, you can’t. Feet, yes. Yards… sure. Miles…no. At that time in history you could see all the way past the river. Across to where the redcoats tried to take away our rights, our liberties, our refusal to use the letter ‘u’ whenever it saw an ‘o’ in a word. Now, the hilltop is surrounded by sturdy iron inside that there are two separate areas, both enclosed by chain link fences…one is official grass and the other a small, functional playground surfaced not with sand or grass, but with protective padding to prevent the City from being sued by parents who don’t watch their children and don’t realise a chin scar is something every child is entitled to…pardon me while I touch mine, formed when I fell out of our Chinese elm tree doing a hanging knee drop that failed.
Around the inside of the protected area from childnappers… where were these people when my children were at their worst, and I wanted someone to take them? … you’ll find benches, each occupied by a parent. Most of these parents spend time eying each other to see who is or isn’t wearing a wedding ring, rather than eying their children, thus the need for the padded surface in the playground area.
There is the strawberry blonde in the a tad bit too tight black teeshirt who makes the initial wedding ring walk past, on the pretext of checking out her offspring on the monkey bars.
“Whitney, be careful!!” Whitney is busy mining her nose, and pays no heed to what her mother is on about.
A well groomed man in expensive sports shoes and nice RayBans jumps up past the blonde to check on RayBan, Jr.
“Brooklyn”, he says, loving the fashionableness of the name, “Brooklyn, be nice to the little girl.” Brooklyn has no idea which little girl his weekend dad is talking about. He’s on the swings.
I wonder if there are any kids in Brooklyn named Manhattan. I tend to doubt it.
RayBay and TightShirt stand by each other, beaming at their children, who are across the playground from each other.
“Look how they are getting along. Wow. Amazing how kids just suddenly bond, isn’t it? If only the world found it so easy to, you know, talk and all. Where do you work? Really? I’m down in the Financial District. Yeah, I wish I had Brooklyn more, but, his mom has him in Montessori and I don’t feel it’s right to upset his schedule. No, Whitney’s dad is mostly unavailable. Um, maybe we should go get some pizza together.”
One day, I’m going to be hurt for eavesdropping.
By this point, Whitney and Brooklyn have discovered the tic-tac-toe game and are eyeing each other over the red stacked X’s and O’s. It doesn’t look pretty from my vantage point on the outer benches lining the park.
When Ray and Tight leave 20 minutes later, they are leaning towards each other… you can see the thought, ‘possible mate’ on each of their faces. Trailing behind are the kids, shooting looks and the whines starting already. They both know the game. Hook up, parents will ignore them and the opposite sex grown-up will over act concern to show how wonderful they are. A few dates, sleep overs, maybe as soon as tonight. It could go to a month or two….if it goes longer, you get attached. Conflict with your other parent, questions about the new boy/girlfriend, competition for your parent’s time, figuring out new space and what if they don’t like Sponge Bob? Hey, it’s the new millennium. It could be worse. Last year, Brooklyn’s/Whitney’s dad/mom dated someone 20 years younger/older than he/she was. That was really weird.
Playgrounds, they’re the new dating world.
On the outside perimeter, where the guns once sat are benches and trees. You can walk around the area on a nice walkway, with other dogs sniffing at your dog and your terrier running after squirrels and pigeons.
On the benches are the old people, old friends. Sitting and talking in various languages. Coats and hats and gloves on, even in this warm pre-Sping air. They nod and talk and smile as I go past with the dog. Some snap their fingers, and we walk over for them to et her. She’s patient, and will put her paws up on their knees to let them know she wants her ears scratched. They are glad to oblige her, and laugh because she nudges their hands when they stop.
Boys go whipping by on their bikes, riding and yelling. The only difference between my generation and this are they have cell phones attached to their belts.
The traffic is milder here. Only a few blocks from the flat, those few blocks, like so often in New York, make a world of difference. Families abound around the park. Small coffeehouses, restaurants, bookstores, it’s softer, smoother, a colour of peach is here, where I live it is more a harsh orange.
I like Bennett’s Park. I may not live here long, while I do, though, I’ll come back, watch the mating rituals, and let the terrier chase pigeons to her heart’s content.
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