My effort to squeeze a bench sitting into the schedule on Sunday was almost laughable. Planned right, there would just be enough time on my drive to suburban D.C. to stop at Cunningham Falls in Maryland, to sit for forty minutes and take in the cascading water.
But there were problems. Like getting to the falls, for one. A winding drive to the park followed by what had been promised as a “fairly flat” half-mile hike shaved off precious minutes. Then, there were the falls.
Or the lack thereof. I suppose renaming it Cunningham Trickle wouldn’t draw in the crowds. And these “falls” drew crowds – with the kind of international flavor I’ve been finding only in cities.
Ironically, I had planned to draw the cascade, as a change of pace from my usual photos. But without much water or time, I opted to do a quick sketch of the woods off to one side. (Drawing the scene was far easier than photographing my hand drawing the scene, which taught me that using a camera is yet another thing I don’t do well left-handed.)
That’s when this boy appeared. Like an advanced scout for an invading troop, he popped up, eyeing with glee the rocky landscape ahead. His siblings and weary parents followed behind. He and his brothers petitioned the adults to let them roam and climb. The father readily agreed.
The mother protested, saying, “If we let them climb we can’t get to the next place!”
The father asked, “What’s the hurry?”
“There’s all kinds of owls and stuff to see.”
“Where?”
“At the tire park.”
The dad’s next words ended the argument. He said, “But when are we coming back here?”
Exactly, I thought. Those are words to live by. When are we coming back here? Why be ever-pressing to the next place, the next person, the next weekend? It was a pointed thought at that moment, as I was panicking to get back to the car to speed to my gig. It’s hard to enjoy the scenery when you’re racing by it.
Racing. During the drive I thought again of how I had, in the last few days, turned down three engagements in three different cities so that I could be at my daughter’s cross country meet today. It made no financial sense, but then, when would I be coming back here: Grace, stride for stride with one of her good friends, sprinting with a fluidity that seemed almost effortless, belying the hard work she puts in. And here: the pleasure in her flushed face, afterward, as she told me details of her running.
After so much of my own racing around, it’s good to be here.
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