Monday, October 27

Outside the pub the evening sky is lavender. A crew of runners, all in costume, piles up at the crosswalk, laughing and jostling on a Halloween fun run. I think I'll take the long way home.

At the bend on Norris I slip through the chain fence and walk past the old depot. To my left a man is chasing his laughing son down the hill on Maple Street. Everywhere, people are smiling. I am too. It's late October and I've been reading Ray Bradbury. Here's a gem from his introduction to the 1999 edition of The October Country:

Skeletons are wondrous ramshackle items that birth themselves when the humans they wore go away.

Ray loved skeletons. I wonder if his is glad to be unburdened of its mortal obligation.

Much of Depot Town is closed on Monday. With its silent barber shop, old brick facades, and ornate central clock, it resembles Green Town, Illinois, the fictional midwestern town where Bradbury set masterpieces like Dandelion Wine and Something Wicked This Way Comes.

At Schultz Outfitters I cross the street and disappear down the stairwell into Frog Island Park. Out on the pitch a group of friends are playing a pickup soccer game — coats are scattered across the terraced bleachers. A brown and white dog lays curled up, watching its human play. On the other side of the path the embankment leads down to the river. The stone firepit, built on the dry riverbed during summer’s drought, has been reclaimed by the rising water.

At the Forest Street bridge I lean over the rail to take my favorite photo. A man passing on the sidewalk says "I love that shot too." Another passerby comments "this summer was the lowest I've ever seen the river. I was worried about fish getting trapped in shallow pools."

"But look at it now," I say.