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The Ithaca Chronicles: Scenes From A Porch On A Monday Afternoon

As I sat, digesting my lunch, sipping on an ice cold Saranac ale, I gazed from the screened in porch at the world that passed before me.  My father lives on a generally quiet street, where normally the sounds of birds or the occasional barking dog is about the loudest thing you'll hear.  Today, is Monday, so I wasn't expecting much fireworks.  I sat, with my drink and the Sunday times.  I read a somewhat sarcastic although spot on editorial about Sarah Palin needing the medias scrutiny to keep her relevant almost as much as the media needs her constant f'ups to fill their pages.  The unlikely duo seem to go hand in hand.  This article is probably hanging on some fridges in uber-liberal Ithaca. 

Ithaca is a college town.  Home to Ivy League Cornell and Ithaca College.  During the school years it's a bustling town with all sorts of people from all walks of life.  The stereotype is; Cornell has the smart kids, Ithaca has the pretty people.  The locals are a mixed bag, but many seem to be leftovers or products of the summers of love in the 70's.  Hair products don't seem to be a big seller in this town and in my few days here, I've seen quite a few mullets.  People here don't seem to be defined by their possessions and most cars appear to be rusted or old models of well known vehicles.  The big supermarket, Wegman's, is a cornucopia of hygienic indifference, professional (but not the urban type) and what seems like scads of teenagers.  They all roam, in a pace that anyone south of Monticello views as sluggish.  Nobody in Ithaca ever seems to be in a rush.  This both pleases me and infuriates me.  Today though, I was one of them.  Sitting on the porch with very few cares.  All of life's maladies cast away.  As I peered over the Times, I saw a young woman on a two-seater bicycle.  Her young daughter, furiously peddling behind her.  In the next few minutes a few more cyclists.  Most older bikes, no more than three speeds.  One elderly woman road by with saddle bags, normally affixed to a Harley attached to the rear of her bike.  A few moments later the woman and her daughter made another lap.  A few minutes after that she returned.  Daughter, no longer with her.  I wondered if she knew. 

I gazed across the street as a mother parked her car and escorted her son, with duffel bags in hands into the home.  I faintly heard her explains how happy she was that he was home for the summer.  Moments, maybe seconds later, a man, wearing one glove released his dog leash and the dog took off into the same yard, the mother had just walked from.  He had to have seen the mother and son and I thought it quite bold.  He walked into the yard and began to break small branches from a tree that hung over the property line between the house and that of the neighbor.  He then started to toss Frisbees to the dog.  At first, I smiled and acknowledged it was the perfect day for this.  Then it dawned on me that this was the father.  He  obviously, saw his son arrive, assumingly back from college, and made no haste in greeting him.  Fifteen minutes went by before he finished showing his canine affection and he disappeared into the house.  Two women rode by during this exchange and they return about five and six minutes apart, this time joined by their children, also on bikes.  I immediately thought of the embarrassment I'd have felt at their ages.  They seemed oblivious.  I guess here, in the land where jean shorts are like cargo shorts, it's expected.

As I sat and viewed my surrounding, slowly drinking my beer, it dawned on me that this is what we all strive for.  Maybe not this far away from the big city, but the chosen solitude.  Neighbors and social events are minutes away, but the choice is there.  The choice to do nothing.  The funny thing, and maybe it's the air, but sitting in a wicker chair, on a warm breezy day, with a drink in hand, is just about the most tiring thing you can do.  But what better place to take an afternoon nap?  The sounds of chirping birds singing you the perfect afternoon lullaby.

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