Cunningham Park

We’re on the hill where the grills are. Smoke rises from the barbeques around us. I believe the South Korean meal will be quite different from our chicken shish kebabs. (I looked on in amazement as the mother perched on her haunches on the picnic bench. I could have held the pose for only a moment before toppling to the ground.) The Mexicans started the charcoal, put the bag to burn on top of the grill, changed their shoes, and went down the hill to play soccer. The Romanians (I’m guessing at their nationality) started their fire and then sat down in lawn chairs. Looks to me like they brought “everything but the kitchen sink”.

Muslim women walk. Indian men play cricket. Laurence relaxes in the lawn chair. We reminisce about being here with Benns, Randys, Tims, Bee, the boys. Randalyn and my friendship began in this park. It’s peaceful here – so different from the playground I wrote about this morning. There are trails in the woods. Birds sing. The 40 acres of grass playing field looks dry.

Expensive homes surround the park. I’m guessing by the sort of stores that Asians and Jews live in the neighborhood. (We passed a photographer taking pictures of a young Jewish man. For his Bar Mitzvah?)

After thirty years, I know something about other cultures. Still, I’m ever learning. Still, I get things wrong. I say understanding culture is the biggest challenge and the biggest blessing of living here. It seems to me that the American man and the South Korean woman grilling next to us is in the midst of a cultural misunderstanding right now.

The sun is setting. Tomorrow is the market, so we will go wait for the bus that takes us to the train and home. Thank you for being interested in my musings. Berniece

P.s. Laurence says, “Did you tell them that Donald Trump grew up near here?”