Jamaica Pond
Almost every day I take the little boy I watch for a walk around Jamaica Pond. Some days he is in a Bjorn (back pack kind of thing, but in the front), some days a stroller. People are friendlier on the Pond. Often they’ll even talk to me, which happens much less on the city streets, just yards away. Of course babies are always an acceptable topic of conversation. And the albino squirrel that hangs out near the boat house often stirs comments. I was watching it once (its whiteness makes it look almost like a mink rather than a squirrel) and a man jogged by and said to me, “Look!” pointing at the squirrel. I smiled and nodded and he panted, “Very rare!” in a didactic tone, and kept running. Another time I walked by a sweet little old man in red glasses who was watching the squirrel, and he looked up at me with the biggest grin on his face. I grinned back at him, and we shared a moment of complete understanding and joy, though neither of us said a word.
Today on the Pond an old man, probably mentally handicapped, asked me as we passed, “Are you going to look at me and say ‘hi’?”
(Peter looked straight at him, as did John).
“Hi!” I said, stopping, and we both looked at the baby. Babies are always an acceptable topic of converstation.
“He’s sleeping,” I pointed out unnecessarily.
“Is his face warm enough?” the man asked, concerned.
In fact, Baby was so bundled up in leggings, sweaters, fleece pants, hat, mittens and snow suit that he couldn’t move, and had promptly gone to sleep in protest.
“Oh, he’s fine,” I assured the old man. We contemplated Baby for another minute, then wished each other a good day and moved on.
