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While I have never been shy about my politics (see the entirety of Fall 2008 or visit my Facebook page any moment of the day for the latest zinger), Duncan has never really announced his. In many ways we are opposites: I prefer to stay inside and mind my own business while Duncan loves nothing more than traipsing through the outdoors sticking his nose in any and all business he can find; while I am steadfastly nonathletic, Duncan is a bit of a jock, running every morning, bounding through the snow, swimming any chance he can get, doing anything and everything I've worked my entire life to avoid. Because of our differences I always sort of assumed he'd be a Republican (just to spite me, even though he's far too giving and compassionate), or worse, a "Libertarian" (as if such a thing really exists. It's like bisexuality, it's a myth that's perpetuated by chronic indecision. Make up your mind already!). 

So I was shocked this morning when he led me across the street, over the soccer fields and straight to the skate park, a place we hardly ever venture near. He had one of those purposeful looks on his face, ignoring the tall clumps of grass where the last traces of discarded food remains from last weekend's Summerset festival. He was a dog with a mission and he wouldn't stop until he'd taken me where he had to take me. And then once we arrived I completely missed what it was I was supposed to be looking at. I was focused, instead, on the man riding the giant mower which kept coming closer and closer, and the hoodlums who'd chosen to skip school in favor of a morning spent on their boards. But Duncan, ever patient and persistent, barked once and wagged his tail to get me to turn in his direction and finally spy what it was he wanted to show me.

And there it was. He was coming out as a good and decent Democrat, a believer in the power of the people (all people, not just some of them).

I couldn't have been more proud.

How could I not love a dog with such a clear message for his papa?

Summerset

On this, one of the last days of Summer, at least according to the parks and rec department, the rain finally broke despite the lingering, smoke-colored clouds, and Duncan and I ventured across the street for some time out in the fields we love so much before the vendors and visitors of the annual Summerset Festival gouge them up and litter them with their discarded turkey legs, sweet-smelling wrappers and wax-covered soft drink cups.

It is a merry occasion but Duncan generally prefers its aftermath, when he can sniff and root through the grass and shrubbery for the goodies left behind after the crowds have departed. And because I'm extremely cautious about what he eats that means he doesn't get to play unfettered by his leash, at least not for the first few days after the revelry has ended. So tonight, under low skies, we practiced catching the Frisbee and chasing the bunnies in solitude and simply walking side by side in the quiet and solitude. The staff at the park were busy today, though, spray painting the grass with squares and numbers where each of the vendor tents and trailers will sit for the next three days, setting up the hand-washing stations and port-a-potties, the chemical smell of which already permeates the air. Tomorrow, thankfully, the scent of grilling corn and all sorts of goodies will waft across the street, along with the sounds of the bands at the amphitheater. 

It is a three day celebration of summer, but inevitably the final hours are spent in a downpour with people running madly for their cars while the vendors close up and dismantle their shops and tents. And just as inevitably, it signals the full, brutal onslaught of Autumn, which means nostalgia and melancholy for me.

Walking back tonight, through the crisp air, my eyes couldn't help but pick out the yellows and reds already appearing among the cottonwoods and the hedges where the little birds roost or the lowness of the sun in early evening sky and the absence of shadows on the sidewalks and grass at our feet. Duncan finds the cool moist of the grass delightful, especially when he can push his face into it, his rump and tail high in the air behind him. But I can only look at the colors and wonder how in the hell I'm going to find the endurance for another six months of wet and cold.

I'm sure Roo has it figured out already. His joy always manages to buoy me through the dark.

A Night Like Tonight

I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
And every thought's a possibility
And voices are heard, but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me
May be an equal mystery.
(Indigo Girls, "Mystery")

We had a late walk––a delicious walk––with children running to Dunc to pat his back and scratch his chin, a vivid tangerine sunset followed by night so dark and clear it seemed we could see faces smiling back at us from the planets above. We played fetch around the few vendor trailers and kiosks which are beginning to arrive for this weekend's Summerset festival, and the air was sweet in a way that it hasn't been for weeks. At the end of August David commented that the world was weary of Summer; the flowers had withered, the air was stagnant and exhausted and even the sky seemed bleached and weary of the season. "Enough already," he sighed. But I wish he had been there tonight in the park with us, where pockets of sweet coolness hung above the fields and the candied breeze somehow smelled of Russian Olives and Lindens, Spring and mint all at once. Duncan chased his ball tirelessly and then rolled in the thick grass with a vigor he reserves for snow and wind. On a night like tonight Summer seems to want to last forever and I want nothing more than to throw my arms around it and beg it to carry us southward with it, dancing under the skies of stars and singing songs only the crickets know by heart.

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. (P.D. James)

Summer's Silhouette

On this night, the night Summerset has ended––the tents folded up, the wares placed back in their careful packaging and the crowds dispersed––Summer really does seem to have gone. It rained for two days straight, clearing up yesterday, enough to appease the crowds and vendors, but turned cold again for much of today. Duncan and I have avoided the park; it's too much to see the litter everywhere, our precious fields reduced to parking lots and lanes. But this afternoon, as they were tearing things down, we wandered across the street if only to visit the Colorado Democrats booth and see if perhaps they had some Obama signs left over. They were quite happy to report that they had none, that, in fact, there wasn't a single sign to be had in the entire state. More should arrive on Tuesday at a town hall meeting so hopefully I'll be able to grab one. Afterward we wandered the park, Duncan's eyes and nose aimed at the ground where he sniffed for remnants of corn dogs, turkey legs and funnel cake. The sky seemed far away as an enormous hawk cut across it, riding the air from the golf course to the park and back again, its wings spread out, hardly moving, its eyes seeing more in the end of the summer than my fellow groundlings. My eyes, though, were trained on the trees, especially the elms, which almost look like they had not even experienced the green of summer. Their leaves have withered already and the branches, which only a few weeks ago were dense and heavy, are now bony and bare. Most of the leaves that have already fallen had been carted away for the weekend's festivities, but a single gold one alighted near my foot and came to rest against a curling dandelion, papery and as transparent as Summer's silhouette can be, perhaps the sign the hawk had been seeking.


My heart breaks every year at the passing of Summer, but tonight, as I prepared a heaping pot of chili, I kept the patio doors open to allow the air inside while Duncan curled up with Bugsy on the cool cement, his nose still turned toward the now empty field across the street. While I chopped and cut and mixed and sipped from the spiced rum which I dribbled into the pot, the slap of a baseball striking a bat rang loud and true, followed by the frenzied cries of the team and spectators. It was a welcome sound, a song of summer, and seemed to drive back my autumn melancholy a bit. Summer is not gone. Not yet, not as long as the lights on the field slice the night and I can hear the game, as long as there is a dandelion left to cast a shadow.

Buried Treasure

Our warm weather seems to have come to an end. Even though it was 50° at 7 AM, the temperatures cooled throughout the day and even as I type this the wind has picked up, dusts of snow are blowing across the orange street lamps and my bones have started to ache.

Much of the snow has melted, revealing all sorts of hidden gems that have been concealed beneath it for the past month. Our walk down to The Glen this evening revealed plenty of goodies which almost make me wish I had to don my big boots and trudge through powder all over again.

First of all, there are the turds. All sorts of turds. Most of them frozen but still colorful. There are the numerous huge diarrhetic pies Cyrus deposited back in November which Tom, his owner, refused to clean up because they were too massive and moist. Then there are the little curly blacks one I imagine were left behind by some small, rat-like lap dog which yips, not barks, in High C. There are the old ones, now yellow and crumbling which, when combined with the fresh ones from the Yellow Lab in the next building, form a minefield which is almost impossible to navigate.

In addition to the plethora of crap littering the back lawn, Duncan and I discovered an empty can of Arizona iced-tea, an unopened fun-size bag of Cheetos, several bleached and empty packs of Orbit gum, a white plastic coat hanger, a USB cord, a brown leather glove, three King Soopers grocery bags still connected, a rotting baseball, a mouldy tennis ball, a roll of twine, an empty matchbox, something I can only assume was once a banana, a string tied around three sad, deflated balloons (two red and a yellow, which I assume are left over from Summerset last September) and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles mask someone quite small must've misplaced last October.

I didn't realize I lived in a dumpster, but the melt has shown me the error of assuming I didn't.

A Port-a-Potty for Your Kingdom

And so Summerset is upon us.

If I hadn't taken Duncan for a walk last night, when the first two booths had appeared and the grass had been painted in orange grids, I would've been shocked at the changes which took place while I was at work today.

The whole park has been transformed. The long soccer fields are lined with tents and booths and trailers where corn and gyros and burgers will be cooked, where crafts will be sold, leaflets handed out. It's a county fair in my front yard.



The back side of Rebel Hill, between the lake and Columbine High School, has been transformed from a grassy slope surrounding the amphitheater into a maze of stages and aisles and rows of more tents and more booths. The edge of the lake has been marked out for the fishing derby. Already people are wandering around trying to sell their goods to the other people who are trying to sell their goods. Everywhere I looked were kids hawking glow sticks for the fireworks display, which may or may not occur tonight (it's cloudy and cold).

I was impressed with how much stuff they're going to cram into the park. Duncan was impressed by other things.



He didn't want to go home.

Scent Path

Of the senses, I believe scent to be my favorite. That doesn't mean I would choose it over the ability to see or hear, it means that scent brings me pleasure in ways the others do not. We can all agree that seeing a puppy or hearing the sound of a newborn brings us joy, but scent is a highly subjective and personal experience. Sauerkraut may remind someone of winter afternoons wrapped in the comfort of their grandmother's kitchen. It makes me think of vomit.

Scent is the sense most associated with memory; in fact the place in your brain that processes and interprets odors is right next door to the place that "contains" your memories. Trigger scent and most likely you've triggered a memory that pertains to it. Hence my association of sauerkraut to vomit.

Tonight during our walk I watched Duncan trace nearly our entire path with his nose. He stops at the same places every night, sniffing here, taking a deep breath there, analyzing everything through his nose. He knows things about the park that I could never imagine, like where the rabbits have sat, cautious and careful as they move across the fields at night, or perhaps what the short, rectangular-shaped hound we occasionally see had for breakfast this morning.

Following his lead, I let me nose guide me. As we cross Bowles, just outside the gate, the smell of earth is strong, almost pungent, wet, like an old fishing net. The earth is soft and I know they water too long at night, so the mossiness of it is no surprise. As we cross the football field, which always smells of thick, freshly mowed grass, and enter the square at the center of four of the baseball fields, I smell popcorn and beer from the concession stand, typical, cliche and also perfect. Coming out and up the hill toward the playground there is the smell of cedar, which always makes me think of Tyrone, the gerbil I had when I was younger. The floor of his cage was covered in cedar chips, which I could always hear him moving around in. That takes me backs to nights on Booth Road, when I sat in my window, listened to Tears for Fears or Depeche Mode and to the baseball game down at the field at the end of the street. On those nights, with Ty scurrying back and forth across his cage and the smell of sage and junipers from the hills around us, I listened for the sharp slap of the ball meeting the bat and I always felt the world was as it should be.

Past the playground I can smell the lake, fishy and duck shitty, but strong and pleasant and full of memory. Never a real fisher myself–although I wanted to be–I spent a great portion of my childhood either sitting on riverbanks or lake shores with my grandmother and mom, eating a peanut butter sandwich, keeping my eye on my bobber to see if something had snagged my worm. It was at Chester Bridge, where we sometimes took afternoon trips with my grandparents, that we stood on the bridge, facing south, and watched the Snake River pass beneath us, creating the illusion that we were moving, leaving the water behind.

Around the edge of the lake, after stopping to take a picture, we passed a couple who'd come out to the park on a date. The man was holding the woman, who looked a little drunk, but was happy when he guided her to the swinging benches overlooking the water and the mountains and the sunset above that. She reeked of perfume, a sweet, Springy smell, flowery, with maybe something like clove as the bass note. Duncan and I followed her path all the way down the backside of the hill. I closed my eyes and allowed my nose to guide me, and for a moment I wondered if perhaps this is what it's like to be a dog, to trust that side of yourself that people seem to take for granted. Eventually we moved out of her path, but I could've pointed out her car, her smell was so strong around it.

And then near the skate park and the playground nearby everything smells of cigarettes, sweat, fast food and salt. Past that we we're back onto the wide fields where everything smells green and healthy, with the cinnamon fragrance of red Autumn just growing stronger every day.

This weekend is Summerset, a festival in which the park will become a playground of events and booths and balloons and people and odors. We probably won't get to throw the ball much, and it'll be quite crowded, but maybe I'll take Duncan just to see where his nose leads us.

(If you'd like to read more about scent, and the other four senses, check out Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses–easily one of my all-time favorite books.)