Along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway

In the city, you learn when to breathe. You learn when to hold your breath.

You learn not to breathe when you pass that homeless man sleeping on a bench beneath the flag of New Zealand on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, that mile-long boulevard connecting Love Park with the Philadelphia Art Museum, yes, that same museum where Rocky Balboa charged up all those stairs. Today you will find people of all ages and races running up those steps before turning back to pump their arms in triumph while smiling friends snap pictures to keep the memory alive. You can even buy a tee shirt from the man who hangs out at the Rocky statue.

But we're done at the Art Museum. We're heading back. We're approaching that man sleeping upon the park bench beneath the flag of New Zealand.

Know that you will taste him, if you don't hold your breath. You will feel him settle upon your tongue like the stale communion host you had this morning in church. You will taste urine and body odor and hopelessness.

Even in your innocence, you will taste guilt.

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Just Beneath

The senior portrait saga begins with a one-hour, fifty dollar (plus tax) photo shoot at the studio, a converted Victorian on a piece of property with lush gardens, brick sidewalks, and a beautiful front porch straight out of Country Living. 

Then four or so weeks later, we return to paradise to preview—and, more importantly order—graduation photos.  If we desire, we can also purchase a deck of playing cards… white boards… heck, we can probably even have life-sized posters of our daughter made up if we asked for it. 

We arrive precisely at eleven for our preview.  We press the intercom.  We are admitted.  

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Esteemed

Once a week, Squints takes an enrichment class some distance from the house.  Usually, I drop him off and hang out at the local library for a couple of hours to pass the time.  Yesterday, just before heading to pick him up, I hit the bathroom. 

The center stall was occupied. 

It was occupied by a very productive little girl.

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Limits

The week my husband and I decided to cancel our gym membership, I lost five pounds.

* * *

I’ve been reading a book of agricultural essays by Wendell Berry.  Despite having written over fifty books, Berry is not a well-known author.  I suspect it’s because he tells the truth where we prefer fiction.  In this book, Berry writes a lot about limits: Despite what the advertisers tell us, he says, we cannot have it all. 

To me this means I need to start limiting in two ways: what I choose to own (and purchase) and what advertisements I choose to listen to (and believe).  I’ve decided, then, in the interest of our upcoming move and in the pursuit of limits, to rid myself of one thing each day. 

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Stock

One cannot rush chicken stock.  Two days, two unhurried days are what you need.  On the first day, you simmer the chicken parts—backs and necks and, if you’re courageous enough, chicken feet.  And then, on day two, you separate the fat from the broth.  You strain the broth.  And then, you run the broth through the separator once more, this time adding copious amounts of ice cubes to which the fat clings.

You’re left with a beautiful, clear stock.

And a pile of necks and backs to deal with.

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