On our walk at the park today, Greta and I took veered off of the paved trails and onto a narrow dirt path carved along the creek. This is the creek where, as a child, I fished for crawdads with a piece of bacon tied to the end of a string. But here I was, at almost 41, with my perfectly polished nails, yoga pants, and New Balance sneakers and all I could see was the gap-toothed, freckled face 10-year old I had been. Then, I wore shorts and tees, Keds tennis shoes, and always had skinned up knees. I don’t think the skinned knees (or elbows) healed from the time I was five and learned to ride that Pink Schwinn with the banana seat until I was entering junior high.

I amused my father and exasperated my poor mother. I would leave the house to go play and come back covered in red earth, courtesy of the Texas red clay that made up the land around my home. I was a lucky girl. Our neighborhood was bordered by a creek and dense woods and every waking moment of the summer, I explored. It didn’t matter if I was alone or with other neighbor kids. The woods were a fascinating wonderland where I could walk, run, or ride my bike. I found trails that led from near my home to almost a mile a way, where my Aunt Nita lived. I discovered wild berries and rabbit families, and the ability to find peace by being a part of nature. I was fearless, as long as my mother didn’t catch me in my reckless moments.

My parents are of an older generation than most of my immediate peers. They were both born during the depression. My sister was seven years older than me. I was self-conscious in an elementary world where everyone wanted the prettiest mom and the most athletic dad. My mother had graying hair and wore a beehive (she still does to this day) and my father was already going bald. During a time when you most want to fit into a crowd, I felt the generation gap of depression-era parents as compared to the post-war parents of my friends as well as the gap of close siblings that played Barbie’s together whereas my sister was dating. I was a goat in the world of sheep.

My father, as I said, was amused. I had no brothers. I was the one who went with him to Western Auto, tagged along on the Golf Course, or went to Montgomery Wards when any of the cars needed new tires. He understood my wanderlust into the woods and didn’t fault me for my sunburns, increasing amount of freckles or my skinned knees. He grew up on a farm and the family’s existence depended upon him helping my grandfather get the crops of maize or cotton picked. He also knew that, when necessary, I would behave as my mother expected. I was in ballet and wore dresses to church on Sundays.

My mother however was of a different culture. She grew up in the city, the daughter of a blue collar worker and a seamstress. Her grandfather was a Baptist Minister and appearances to the outside were critical. She expected me to wear dresses every day and shiny patent leather Mary Janes. Patent leather scratches in the brambles I would become entangled with at times, and couldn’t be tossed into the washing machine like the Keds. I think her biggest horror was the time she found wood ticks on me. Which, I admit was gross, but it was just one of the consequences of climbing trees.

The first time I kissed a boy, we were sitting on the side of Red Bluff, looking over that creek. I guess that was when I stopped being such a tomboy and let my skinned knees heal. That first kiss. That was when I bent to the wills of my mother and sister and began to act like a little lady.

So much of that has stuck with me. Though it isn’t the fashion, I am a wearer of pantyhose. I prefer conservative pumps, black as the base of my wardrobe, and conservative pearls and silver hoops. As my mother, and grandmother, would have it, I present the appearance of seeing to be poised and collected. Inside, a part of me is still that wild tomboy with the freckles and skinned knees. I’m happy to report though that I’ve been tick-free for at least 30 years.

And sometimes, if you look closely, you will see I am still a goat among the sheep. At almost 41, I’m delighted to have learned that it’s wonderful to not be just a nother face in the crowd.

People watching is certainly a pastime of which I see as one of those guilty pleasures in life. People are fascinating as they go about their lives, often oblivious to the surrounding world. I am always wondering about the person’s story. At times, it’s suitable to engage in conversation the people around you, and many of the stories you will see from me in this project will reflect just that: a tiny piece of a life, captured in conversations with a stranger. There are situations, however, that are best left unexplored, albeit for a safety factor (both emotional safety and physical safety) or an due to the inappropriateness of an approach during a moment of grief or passion.

As an observer of life, there is something especially delicious about the opportunity to watch lovers.  Body language gives you the glimpses inside their story, though you will never be privileged enough to know all the twists and turns their lives took to become this intertwined pair.  An elderly couple holding hands can show the affection that has continued beyond youth and you can sometimes see the spark between a couple  if you hold the look for more than ten seconds.    The rare opportunity to unobtrusively snap a photo gives you the opportunity to look at more.  The tilt of the head as she listens to him speak, the leaning into each other for just an smidgen of closeness in a public space, or the possessiveness of an arm that shows he sees her as his property.  Sometimes, it is obvious that one party is more interested than the other.

As I walked around the curve of the Jefferson Memorial to snag a photo of The Tidal Basin awash in Cherry Blossoms, I happened upon this couple leaning in to snap their own personal snapshot of the moment.    At one of the busiest locations during the Cherry Blossom Festival, they have managed to find complete privacy.  She is trying to get a photo, for the memory of their trip or perhaps to show her Facebook friends their visit to DC.  He is obliging her the photo, but he seems more interested in leaning in to whisper in her ear and take in the scent of her.

I’ve been woolgathering for days about this couple, imagining the behind the scenes of their relationship.   I am a writer of fact more than fiction these days.   My words of prose were inadequate to do justice to her smile and his lean.

All was quiet in the Smouse House.

I remember that it was a Sunday and the sun had barely peeked over the horizon and had not yet risen enough to bring light into the house through the micro-gaps in the mini-blinds.   The girls, typical teens in their sleep habits, were still in that deep REM sleep.  They wouldn’t wake for hours.   Animals, as was there demand, had been given their morning meal and the coffee pot was dripping.   I was waiting for my first cup of the French Roast mixed with just the right amount of milk.  Patience is not always my friend during this wait, but I had been trying her out of late, and resisted my urge to use the “drip and pour” method as was frequent during a busier morning.  But it was Sunday and I had no where I had to be at any particular time.

My head was still on the filaments of the dream I had woken to as I dug into my still sleepy mind to pick out more details beyond the feelings of softness and warmth.  It’s harder to remember when you jolt awake.  And the dream was too delicious not not savor as I would a fine piece of chocolate.  So I stood in the dark kitchen with readied cup, waiting for the signaling beep as I took in the smell of the fresh coffee with the warmth of my thoughts.  It was almost automatic pilot when I poured and mixed into my favorite cup of late, the one from Mystic Seaport.  I took the first sip standing there at the counter before wandering into the living room to enjoy my first cup in the silence.

And as I sat on the love seat, hot cup of coffee in hand, my leg brushed something between the sofa and the love seat.  My heart went up and my throat and all soft and warm feelings were gone in an instant when I realized that something was there. And then I saw that it was only Rex.

Damned. Kids.

Well, kid.  As Rex belongs to my oldest.  My oldest who, at 17, loves dinosaurs more than any 7 year old boy.  And she had positioned this 2-foot high creature, in all his plastic glory, just peeking between the sofa and the love seat.  Peeking just enough to cause me to startle.

The house was still dark and silent, but my head wasn’t.  Lost was the softness of the dream and it was replaced with feelings of amusement and a different kind of softness.  That love that a parent feels no matter how horrible she been the day before.  Pieces of their personality that you always liked – like this love of dinosaurs at the edge of adulthood – pushing away the feelings of frustration at hormonal rants and refusals to take out the trash.

I patted Rex on the head and enjoyed my first cup of coffee in the quiet of the morning.  Where everyone was sleeping.  And everything was right.

I am having a love affair.  It may be an unrequited love, though I have this hope that one day, my love will be returned.  Well, if not returned exactly, at least rewarded.  Last Sunday, after losing about half a dozen balls to the Golf Water God, my love gave me what I had been seeking.  The flight of a little white ball up and over the twelve-foot creek.  My love?  My 7-Iron.

My clubs have only been with me for about a month.  I purchased them shortly before the New Year.  Oh, and speaking of love, I love how they look.  They are beautiful, all of their shiny little heads connected by flexible shafts to lovely grips.  I researched Ladies clubs and though I don’t quite understand every bit of science and mathematics behind their creation, but I do know that of the six sets of clubs I considered before making the investment, these sounded the best when I hit the ball.    They are much nicer than my first clubs, a heavy iron set of Wilson’s.  And the lovely sounding (and lightweight) clubs were packaged in a beautiful blue and green bag. Seriously, do I look like the kind of girl who would carry around a hot-pink golf bag? Do you know how hard it is to find ladies golf clubs that aren’t packaged in pink, hot pink, or purple?

On my first couple of outings with my new clubs, my hybrid 5-iron was my favorite.  But the  over-the-water shot moved the 7-iron to the top of my list.  It’s place in my heart was sealed when I hit off the tee box on a Par 3 hole and made it over yet another creek.    I am new at golf, so managing to get the golf ball airborne a feat, let alone combining it with distance.

I know, I know.  Don’t tell the other clubs that I am having and affair with the 7-iron.  I don’t want them to be jealous.

I love talking to Veteran’s, especially those from the WWII era. They proudly wear their hats that announce them a WWII Vet and are often willing to spend a few moments chatting with a stranger about life. I also find that the veteran’s from that era are often ready to easily talk about their time during the war. I don’t know if it’s the time distance from the war, their age, or a combination. Maybe it’s the fact that few people are willing to take the time to listen to what they say.

December 7, 2008 was a bright but cold Sunday. I happened to be in DC and wandered own to one of my favorite spots to people watch:  The Navy Memorial.   The Navy Memorial is on on Pennsylvania Avenue at 7th Street.  There you will find a granite sea and the Lone Sailor Sculpture staring across the sea.  When the weather is warm, the fountains are flowing, surrounded by bronze plaques representing different communities of the navy as well as different events.  I always remarked that the only idiosyncrasy is that the fountains smell of chlorine, and they should really smell of salt.   But it was Pearl Harbor Day and the fountains were empty due to the chill in the air.  I would be unable to stay for the wreath laying ceremony honoring the victims and heroes of  “The Day that will Live in Infamy”, but I was fortunate enough to watch the rehearsal.

And that’s where I met Dave.

He was a proud WWII Veteran wearing not only his WWII Veteran Baseball Hat, but a photo of himself in his Navy Uniform. I smiled at him, and the gentleman he was with, telling him I wanted to shake his hand and thank him for his service. He introduced me to his friend, Bill, a Korean Vet.   After I shook hands with Bill, Dave took my gloved hands in his and in that moment, I could see the boy in the photo in the eyes of the man before me.   Without me needing to ask many questions, Dave began to share part of his story.

“I grew up in Maryland, and when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, I didn’t even know where Pearl Harbor was – I had to get a map and find it.  But I joined up – all the kids I knew joined up.  I remember this one kids down the street tried to change the date on his birth certificate, he was only fifteen. Me?  I was seventeen.”

He looked over my shoulder and motioned to the statue of the Lone Sailor.

“My mom took a photo of me – just like that – right before I shipped out.  I’ve looked everywhere and can’t find it, but wondered the first time I saw that statue, if it was me.   Then I realized, it could have been any of us.  But  I had a bag like that, and a was so young and excited, like he is.    I remember that Garrick coat. It was so warm. “  Then he chuckled.   “I actually lost the first one.  Well, didn’t lose it, someone else took mine and left his older one in it’s place.  It wasn’t quite as warm as it had seen some time.”

We chatted more, and as I always do, I ask about life after the war.  He worked for a machine shop and as time passed, he became a manager.  The bonus of management meant a membership at the country club.  His wife, who had passed on several years before, had loved that.   He also told me about his children and grandchildren, especially his son, currently serving in the navy.  He stood a little straighter then, as the told me about his son – he was an officer and was in and out of war zones and loved what he did.

As we parted, I asked him what he remembered the most.  “It was an adventure.  I learned that I could have fun and I loved it.  Maybe I’m not supposed to say I had any fun at all, going off to war.  But I did”.