Reading a Novel by A Creek
A fine bright morning compelled a longer walk with Elmer. We took a double loop around the park and headed for another park in the neighborhood, a tiny one where two creeks converge under a canopy of trees as the water flows to the Willamette River, the Columbia, the Pacific.
On our way, we passed the 60-year-old trailer marooned next to an apartment building's fence, covered in tarps and three tents pitched haphazardly nearby. The various accumulations of shit from this mini encampment blocked 40 feet of sidewalk. I saw one sofa, a recliner, four barbecues. One was still burning because the smell of charcoal filled the air.
My favorite part of this park is a picnic table situated at the edge of a creek. In recent years I have seen multiple homeless couples sit across from one another at this table and engage in serious conversation. Several times I have encountered homeless people sitting at the table staring out to the creek, perhaps collecting themselves, perhaps in communion with the rushing, gurgling sound. Creeks have a way of doing that for certain people. Count me as one. I guess that's why the tepid water in the baptismal never spoke to me when I was baptized at age ten. It said less than nothing.
I have also written letters at the table, scrutinized its graffiti, and staged the launch party for the Old Crow Book Club there. Someone once even built a cairn of river rocks on the table. I'd be ten grand the builder was a homeless person.
Elmer and I took the gravel path that led to a small clearing where the picnic table stood.
I was somewhat surprised to see a large and bearded Latino man sitting at the table and reading a fat novel.
It was six in the morning!
He was certainly not homeless He had no possessions scattered around a $5000 e-bike leaning against a tree.
Anytime I see anyone reading a novel in public, I ask the reader the title of the book. They are always happy to share. You can't ask someone fiddling on their phone what they are doing.
The man looked up from the novel and smiled. Who doesn't want to talk about a book you are reading!
He told me it was the first in a fantasy series by a female author. He'd never read her before and I'd never heard of the series. The name of the novel and the author now escapes me.
I said I really loved that picnic table and its close proximity to the creek.
He smiled again and said, “I love coming here and hearing the creek. Some people don't like the sound. I don't understand that.”
I agreed with him.
Naturally I had to ask him about bicycling to a park at dawn and reading a novel there. He gave me the lowdown.
He commuted from Gladstone, about eight miles away, to the neighborhood every now and then to drop off his homemade jewelry to several gift shops. His jewelry was distinguished by the stones, agates and crystals he harvested from all around Oregon. He also sold some of it at various farmer's markets.
Then, entirely unprompted by me, he said, “I sometimes meet homeless people at this table.”
I said the same thing had happened to me on multiple occasions.
“We talk for awhile, “ he said, “then I usually give them my lunch or snacks and even a few bucks.”
The man and I discussed homelessness in Oregon for five minutes. We discussed how the creek might help the homeless people in some small way. We said our goodbyes and the man returned to his novel. Elmer and I walked away and I listened to the creek tumble over rocks.