The Rocking Horse

"The Kelpies", Andy Scott, Scotland

I’ve taken a slight detour this morning. I’m not sure why. I walk the same route day after day, month after month, and now, year after year.... Up 31^st street, down McBryde, down 30^th street, then back up to Roosevelt and home. But for some reason this morning, as I was marching down 30^th street in the frigid 37-degree air, I pause at Grant Street.

            I take a right toward the bay instead of my usual continued path straight ahead.

            What did Frost say? The road not taken?

            I stride down Grant Street, seeing houses I’ve not seen before. A bright blue and yellow number with a dilapidated wicker rocker on its porch. A fancy just remodeled bark yard, with baby succulents popping up. And as I turn down 26^th street, a Giant Metal Rocking Horse in the middle of a green green lawn.

            I slow my pace, marveling at the enormity of the sculpture. A man appears out of the house, locking his front door and then turning to walk to his car. He’s dressed in a light brown jacket and brown pants. The standard non-descript menswear. His brown bald head is hatless in the cold.

            I stop and grin a greeting, “Is this your sculpture?”
            He beams, shakes his head. “Nah...a friend of mine made it.”

            “Wow! It’s amazing!”

            He shrugs. “It’s been here forever.”

            “Really?” I walk a little closer to examine it. It must be about 15 feet high, or more, and the same across. It’s made of what looks like old parts of a car or truck or some other repurposed metal. Its giant head is a bouquet of metal pipes, pointing to both the sky and the ground.

            “Does it have a name?” I ask.

            He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “That’s a good question. I don’t know. But I will ask him.”

            “Cool,” I continue to stare at the sculpture.

            “It works,” he offers.

            “You mean it rocks?”

            “Nah, if you hook it up it’ll make a noise. You know like that noise we hear round here on Wednesdays that sounds like what? ‘The missiles are coming.’” He chuckles.

            “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.” And I do know what he means by the noise. It’s like an air raid siren that goes off at 11 am every Wednesday. The first time I heard it I thought we were being attacked. It’s loud and long, wailing like an injured sea lion magnified a thousand times.

            But I didn’t know how the Rocking Horse would be ‘hooked up’ or why you’d want it to make the Missile Alarm Noise.

            “Does your friend have other work?”

            “Oh, sure, he does. He makes those giant fruit sculptures you see on the highway. You know the bananas and the apples.”

            I nod. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

            “And are you an artist too?”

            He laughs, “I’m a security guard. But I did make some sculpture years ago taking classes at College of Marin. I like it, you know? You can put whatever you’re feeling into the sculpture. Like if you broke up with your girlfriend or broke your arm, you can take that emotion and put it in the art.”

            I nod. Of course, I know what he’s talking about. As a pianist, I take the emotion of both the composer and myself and channel it into making the music. I had to stop playing Chopin’s Nocturnes after a time because they were making me so melancholy. I don’t need that. Though the beauty of the music. I do need that....so, I go back to them again and again.

            I don’t tell him this, though. Instead, I mention my mother who is also a sculptor. Tell him how she used to work in bronze.

            He nods, thinking. “Yeah, bronze is cool. I knew this guy who worked in bronze. He created a fence for these people down in where was it? Los Altos? Yeah....and the fence was worth like a million bucks. And he showed me how to polish it. It had that patina, you know?  And then you do the rubbing and make it shine so pretty. If you know how to do this you can go anywhere in the world and make 30 bucks an hour.”

            I don’t know what to say to this. As a security guard, he probably makes minimum wage, so learning this craft would be lucrative. I wonder why he’s not traveling the world polishing bronze in Italy, Spain, Argentina....

            “What’s your friend’s name?” I ask.

            “David. He’s part of CERT. You know that?

            “No.” I’m not sure I’ve heard the word correctly, but I don’t ask again. I just want to hear him talk.

            “It’s for when the Big One comes and he’s one of the volunteers who comes over and saves the day.” He laughs.

            “Good to know,” I grin, still not having a clue what he’s talking about.

            “My name’s Carol,” I offer.

            “I’m George,” he says. Normally, we might shake hands, but we’ve kept our distance. Well, more than the prescribed 6 feet social distance required. Though now with Omicron running rampant, its transmissibility through the roof, I wonder if 6 feet is enough.

            “Nice to meet you,” I say, turning toward Barrett.

            “Yeah, you too,” he says.

            “Ask your friend if the sculpture has a name,” I remind him.

            “I will do that. That’s a good question....” He turns and unlocks his olive-green sedan, the exchange over.

            I head down the block, toward Barrett, and think how a new route can lead to stories. Glancing back at the Rocking Horse, I imagine it moving back and forth, a strange otherworldly siren screaming out of its pipe head, the missiles flying in the sky....

           

           

 

            

Marching in Richmond

“Is someone playing the flute?” I ask myself out loud, striding down 31^st on my morning walk. The gentle melody floats through the Diablo winds. I recognize it, but can’t identify it. I figure it’s someone practicing inside the house with the windows open, but as I get closer to the source, I see that it’s a dark-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses.  He's standing on the sidewalk, under the shade of a massive magnolia tree, a baby strapped to his back in one of those baby papooses.

I am walking in the middle of the street (yes, I still practice social distancing), but pause now to chat. He’s momentarily stopped playing the short, black, flute-like instrument. Grinning at me, he waves the instrument toward me in greeting.

“Hi!” I say, “that was lovely!”

“Oh....” he smiles shyly, “I was just practice....”

“Is that a recorder? Or a piccolo?” I ask. I have no clue about wind instruments. If it’s not a piano or a cello, I’m at a loss.

“Actually, this an Irish Tin Whistle. It is easier than a recorder. It has no holes to punch on the back. You can get them for 10 or 15 dollars, but this one is more. It is bamboo. It is 150.”

“Ah....well, I imagine the sound is better?” I offer. Who knew anything about the Irish Tin Whistle? Not I!

“Yes, of course, it is better. It is different. But I think maybe not necessary. For Christmas gifts, for your grandchildren (Yes, I’m a grandmother with strangers on the street), you can get it. All children, I think should have one. It is not so difficult to play.”

The baby on his back stares at me from his round pale face, big brown eyes unblinking. Music makes him serene? Or maybe he just enjoys being outside, under the magnolia tree, the dry air ruffling his thick black hair.

“I think it probably takes a lot of skill to play,” I say, thinking how I probably wouldn’t be able to get a peep out of it. I’ll never forget the time I visited my best friend in 5^th grade, Eileen O’ Brien, and she tried to teach me how to play the flute. (She was quite accomplished.) I tried and tried, blew and blew, pursed my lips just like she showed me and still......not a sound came out of the instrument!

“I am just practicing now....” he answers, modest in his skill. “It is a good instrument though. You can take it with you.”

“Unlike the piano!” I jest.

He is unfazed. “You can take an electric keyboard and play it.” He makes a motion in the air with his hands across an imaginary keyboard. We both laugh.

“Well, I’ll let you continue your practicing,” I say, waving goodbye.

He nods, starts to play again. The baby stares at me before a bird distracts him, landing in the magnolia tree.

As I march up the street, the single strain of the tune follows me. Ah, it’s Mozart! The Turkish March.

Grinning, I take up its rhythm, not even minding a brief gust of heaty wind whipping the leaves around me.