Hazy Memories

I was pretty sad to see the public notice that said the basketball court and asphalt trails are going to be ripped out and replaced with mulch and plants. I knew it was inevitable. I guess I'm surprised it took this long.
I have a lot of great memories of that hidden corner of Alabama Hill. Bunnies sailing over the paths and skittering through the underbrush. The depression in the asphalt court that froze in the winter creating a nice size sheet of ice to slide on or that filled with just enough water in the spring for Ryanne to skip rocks and sail sticks. Last spring it was deep enough that a lonely, but optimistic, male mallard set up his territory in hopes of raising a family there. In August, bushes were always thick with blackberries that grew along the perimeter. Ryanne and I would race the hundred feet of twin paths that circled a stand of scrub brush to meet again at the bottom of the old playground. I always felt anxious from the time she vanished around the bend and relieved when I saw her waiting at the finish line for me.
So when I saw the public notice, I was filed with nostalgia. I got my camera and hiked through Whatcom Falls Park to the back entrance of the basketball court cursing the city council, parks department, and every person I knew who thought of themselves as environmentalists. Why couldn't they value ancient ruins like people in Europe do? I climbed the eroded path made by deer and drug addicts, and as I crested the hill and looked through the arc of brambles I thought, “What a dump.”
The court looked like a huge, shallow compost heap. Unlike past years, there was no blackened cardboard from July 4th fireworks. The single broken beer bottle proved that even teenagers and drug addicts had abandoned the place. The asphalt trails were still intact, but the mystical quality of disappearing into an enchanted forest was gone along with the duck.
That's what happens when you leave Nature on its own without maintenance. One big mess. No wonder I couldn't get Ryanne down there this spring.
Now the best part of the basketball court left is in my memory. And I don't have to walk to get there!
Nancy Sherer