THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE

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   It was a day for Enumerating Delights in Central Park. Some people call this Counting Your Blessings but I'm not good at higher math.

    I like to pick a bench by its 3"X2" plaque. I chose an "In Loving Memory" type which had an unusual addition: a tiny etching labelled, "The End of the Trail," the famous Fraser artwork of a Cherokee bent over a weary horse. The man could easily be Lakota or Sioux but, naturally, I think of him as Apache, a tip of the hat to my ancestry. From my bench, I watched the sketch artists for lessons because I have often wondered if I could have a specialty spot for drawing children, angel wings attached as iridescent as abalone shells. I would at the same time enjoy listening. Children's speech is a magical journey of new definitions and emphasis. A four-year old once informed me her mother was very very very very busy reading THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE. How meaningful to change "purpose" to "porpoise." How free and exuberant. A parade of pint-size Zoo Camp 2012-ers marched past  in an orderly file. I thought about their futures. Would any of them ever go to the Amazon River and see the frog as small as a dime whose poison can "take down ten men." (Information courtesy of Ann Patchett's novel, THE STATE OF WONDER). This bit of contemplation reminded me of when I was two and my family was on home leave from Brazil to visit my grandmother in Oklahoma. I told my mother to tell her mother that I only spoke Orcacheese. 

   The Delacorte clock struck eleven. It was time to pack up my library book, THE PASSION OF ARTEMESIA, and eagerly mull the next porpoise or two in my life of many porpoises. Abrigado, Central Park.