Cimbing Hills

On the trail I saw her this morning, a diminutive figure, hunched over, her white shoes contrasting with her lose fitting blue pants and her flowered blouse moving with each step.  At the distance I noticed a faded, yellow sunshade pulled down over her forehead, eyes barely uncovered.  She was moving slowly on the dirt and gravely road.  She wasn’t unlike others who daily walked the pathway trying to get some exercise during this isolating time.

But the most noticeable thing I really saw was the item over which she hunched and struggled moving forward:  It was one of those Rollator Walkers, the kind you can sit on.  It has hand brakes too!  She was making ruts in the dust as she pushed forward.

Anyway, our closing distance narrowed:  Mickey my old pal, his nose straight up in the air trying to detect something in the distance, didn’t seem to care about her.  He had other ideas.

I noticed that she was about to transition from the dirt and gravel area to a steep, paved part of the continuing road down where there was a lip on the transition between the dirt and asphalt.  I quickened my pace to meet her and reached out to help her lift her walker onto the paved surface.  I quickly noticed that her face was weathered and wrinkled – hard days in the past, I assumed.  (She had to be over eighty years old, if she was a day!)

In a foreign accent she said, “I’ve got it!”

I couldn’t help it:  I still reached out and gently lifted the front of the walker to the pavement (I blame my instinct to help on chivalry).  I noticed she wasn’t wearing a restricting mask (nor did I) and she was breathing steadily as she strode on.  I was quite taken back. 

I turned toward the steep incline, motioned upward, and said: “Will you be ok going up,” as I tried to image her tackling the slope with the walker.  I’ve seen many a younger person breathing heavily walking up that stretch of the trail.    

She snickered and said, “I hope so!  I do it all of the time!”   

Wow!  I was totally impressed.  Here was this elderly woman, determined not to waste her day, but willing to tackle her hill, pushing the object which, for most, would victimize them and hasten their demise.  COVID wasn’t about to get her down:  A toast to her and wishing her many more hills to go!

Sea Foam

White

Frothy foam

Sweeps the beach

Now where to go

But hugging spans of sand        

Piling up like Tide soap suds         

A pungent odor of decay wafts upward    

From many algae species as red tide dies      

Referred to as phytoplankton under a science microscope seen      

After dark magical blue radiance dances among waves       

Drawing a crowd to beaches still closed    

Taking a mind off a shutdown      

Soon it will die out     

Like the COVID 19

Then comes holidaymakers

Celebrating summer

Free!

Bouquet and Sunset

Lonely as a sentinel it stood, atop a weathered post overlooking the Pacific Ocean but guarding nothing.   A small, clear, plastic bottle with a narrow white band near the opening was the placeholder for an array of weeds and dainty, purple flowers soaking in life-sustaining water. 

A cool breeze skimmed the surface of the ocean nearby, racing up the bluff and fluttering the small delicate petals of the Calandrinia and waving the Foxtail which were arranged in the no-label bottle.  And in the background, out over the horizon the yellow paintball of a setting sun seemed to touch the blades of the Foxtail on its way to nightfall.

Remember back when you were a child and you spotted a blooming weed (maybe a dandelion or Yellow Woodsorrel mixed among clover) and you lovingly plucked it from the earth and with pride took it home to your mother.  She was so excited to receive the gift and always found a container, maybe a widemouthed Mason jar or a favorite cup, and carefully arranged the weed bouquet till it wilted away.  Both of you were happy!

And here, a primitive bouquet of wildflowers, so to speak waited.  But how did it get there?  Who carefully plucked this bouquet, found the small plastic bottle, filled it with water, and carefully arranged the bunch?  Was it a present for a lover?  Was it a gift from a child?  Was it in remembrance of a friend? Or just maybe it was to honor the day and add to the mystery of the disappearing sun. 

But it was left in a lonely place, not seen by many.  Maybe that was the plan, after all.  A quiet and peaceful offering.  Or maybe because it was a bouquet of quickly plucked flowers and weeds it did not make the cut for the journey home.  For whatever the reason it was left, other than prompting dreamy speculation, it brought me a moment of pleasure to contemplate its beauty being kissed by the setting sun.