peach street

The sunlight breaks through the fog after dropping Lucian off at school.  I coast around this neighborhood that reminds me of my grandparents' house when I was a kid.  Monaldi Drive: saying the name aloud conjures for me the humdrum of their neighborhood and the slowness of their backyard garden.  

 I make sure that no one is behind me to rage at my drifting.  I keep my camera open to shoot the baseball field, its emptiness, or the street with its canopies of live oaks that fade with each receding address. 

  I turn onto Peach street.  I say its name, Peach Street, sweetness.  Its road crumbles at the edges, no curb or sidewalk.  Any other time of year and this street might appear rough with its houses that are neglected. 

 But there is one new house at the bend.  I’ve walked to it with my family and dog, to caste our opinions about its creation.  We walk to its backyard that looks out onto a currently dry floodplain.  The kids see how far they can throw rocks and ask if they can climb down the ravine.  This Peach street that must appear dismal to so many is the envy of my children who wish we could live here.

Andi and I announce 5 minutes and manage to depart in 4.  We walk back across the school practice field with old fashioned goal posts.  My eyes scan the park edges for a Killdeer that Lucian and I spotted a week earlier.  Not knowing much about birds, we agree that it feels out of place, resembling instead those birds we see along the coast 150 miles south.

Other encounters while walking or driving.

Currently on display at Spellerberg Projects in downtown Lockhart.

Pink buttercups on Easter Sunday.

Milk and honey.