One Hundred Fifteen
At ten o’clock that morning I walked through the ridiculously heavy glass doors of the Art Museum. I wasn’t exactly on a mission. But for once in my adult life, I was visiting the Art Museum alone, and could do whatever I wanted. This sort of meant walking gallery by gallery reading every single placard and recording the time it took to do that. Halfway through Oceania one of the walking guards paused in his rounds…
“You’re certainly taking a detailed approach.”
I briefly explained the situation. My six year-old son was not as interested in Indonesian evil spirit masks painted in white lime and ochre from the early 20th century as I was apparently. Unless it involved human skulls or blood. Because he’s a boy. The guard nodded…
“I know what you mean. The older you get, solitude becomes a more rare commodity.”
I guess I don’t mind that.
I snooped in on a gallery lecture in the African Arts; managed to learn that cowrie shells were collected by the millions by Portuguese traders and used as packing peanuts. Then moved on to textiles. One hour and twenty minutes later and I had only barely finished the lowest east wing of the museum. A lot of futility in those arts. A lot of darkness. Some beauty too.
The Bear forgot he had a lunch meeting at noon. So I sat at the park, listened to the chugging engines of the parks and rec department fix things up for the spring. Then The Bear bought me a pretzel roll sandwich – turkey, brie, arugula, and apple butter – from Companion down the road. Good man. He also left a Magic 8 Ball in the car by my water bottle. Sometimes he just finds these things.
I checked out some of the amazing Sioux and Cheyenne beadwork upstairs when I got back. Millions of tiny glass beads. I don’t know how they had the time to do that and everything else they had to do to make life work.
Circled the Grand Basin – fresh green grass, people at rest and play.
Dropped by Rose’s for awhile to refill on water.
More exciting that anything, though, was news, pictures, and video from Cassville, Missouri, that Puck had learned how to ride a two-wheeler with no training wheels. First try. My big guy. And another big guy got his first hand behind the wheel of a small plane. Brother Number Two was beginning his pursuit into aviation.
The Bear promised me a date to make up for forgetting lunch. Winslow’s Home – where they sell cage free eggs, exotic sodas, and St. Louis-made potato chips, toys, and drawers of candy, and grilled cheese sandwiches, which is of course what I ordered. And a sparkling pomegranate soda.
Then we walked around Barnes & Noble, got tempted, didn’t buy anything. The yellow bowl of the moon popped up – lantern.
