ride write

Upon her move to New York, my daughter bequeathed me her bicycle. It's a sturdy blue cruiser, and I have to say I've wished more than once I had a metal steed like hers. Now I do. The bike and I set off yesterday in search of possible writing haunts.



I was quite pleased to come upon a garden variety work bench.



I arranged myself and wrote. Nearby the highway whisper-chanted. Close up, a honeybee disappeared inside bedraggled rose petals. People passed, holidaying. Tim was at work, so I didn't mind using some thought-power, testing the hard bench for possible future dry days (how many are left to this year, I wonder).



At last I decided I was thirsty. My bike and I took the side street that led to the street my dad grew up on. Maybe it's the time of year, the sort of late-summer day when we used to visit. Nostalgia broke over me rounding the corner at Clark and Madison. Though much looks different, I know that sidewalk; I remember those trees. And there, in front of the house where such weighty things, it seems, happened, was a realtor's red and white sign. I had to stop.

Craning my neck before the cyclone fence and walking up the alley to peek at the "little house" where Grandma Edna lived her final years didn't bring anyone out to ask if I might like to look inside, so I dug out my cell phone and called the realtor's number. Though it was Labor Day, a man said hello.

"Uh, oh. I've been meaning to update that sign," he said. "There's a pending sale. It's going for $____." As if that should quell all possible inquiry.

"I just --" I fumbled, not knowing why I called. "My dad was born in that house."



"Oh!" A different story. We chatted about some facts: the present owners did well by the place; they cared about it, the neighborhood is becoming more "upscale", and the new buyers should improve the place greatly.

"One of the earliest places around," the realtor said. "It's really two houses."

"Yeah. I know."

I wandered on to The Goat, an actual coffee shop, where people sit inside and (on these kinds of days) outside. I ordered hot water, my beverage of choice. The mug was comfy, and I could write in there, too, even with music playing, though I fretted about my bike locked out front. No one stole it; with people all around I don't think anyone would, but you never know, so next time I'll be sure to get a seat near the window.

I also ought to bring change next time, at least for a tip, since I felt badly leaving without paying anything after my water was gone. Nobody seemed to mind.

The way home, through neighborhoods and along the river, rolled past at a thoughtful pace.