The village we live in has a yearly festival. Which starts tomorrow. I was hoping to get some pictures of the carnies setting up the rides or something cool so Bryan and I drove over to the park to check it out. The whole trip was off-putting. And I don’t know why.
Even though the park’s under a mile away we drove. With low, dark clouds and humid air the sky was aching to split open. As much as I love a good walk in the rain, my camera would not be so appreciative. After parking we walked into the park. Instead of the typical jovial excitement that surrounds a festival or the flurry of last minute tasks that one may expect it felt deserted. There was a woman reading on a bench wearing drab shades of gray with an obscenely yellow scarf. There was a couple with two children on the playground equipment. The boy was silently hanging upside down on the monkey bars while the girl was stomping her feet on the top of the slide. This is the old part of the playground, not any of the new fancy plastic structures here. So instead of an annoying thud thud of feet on plastic it was the jarring sound of a metal “thunder board” from ye olde theatre. There was no one else. At 6:30 I thought there would have been other people around. The games and rides were obscured from view by the campers that the carnies travel in. The way they were parked it reminded me of when settlers would circle the wagons to protect the caravan as a whole. Discouraged by lack of shiny fun things to shoot, we looped back to the car through grass. There is a wall that borders part of the park. There was beautiful ivy covering a portion of it. The verdant leaves broke up the monotony of the bleak concrete walls.
Back home, sitting in my armchair, staring at my laptop with that feeling I can’t put in words, I can smell the rain coming.