Like Rain on Parked Cars, Chapter 15 – Fairmount Park

Lawn at the Mann Center, Philadelphia, PA, Image courtesy of Manncenter.org

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, Because He has anointed Me To preach the gospel to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted…And…To set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4; 18).

Covering slightly over 4000 acres, Fairmount Park claims to be the largest landscaped park in America.  Walking, biking, and bridle trails can be found throughout the park.

Flanking either side of the Schuykill River are Kelly and Martin Luther King, Jr. Drives, providing early morning commuters scenic glimpses of the river as they sit in traffic.  Kelly Drive is host to numerous statues of notables and open air sculptures.  A historic cemetery along the drive dates from the Civil War.

Jonathan saw his first goose at Fairmount Park.  Canada geese are frequent visitors.  Aretha and I stood guard from a few feet away, as Jonathan toddled sturdily forward, the goose very nearly larger than he was.

Aretha pulled out juice and cereal for Jonathan to snack on.  Unlike some other young mothers, she was careful to avoid falling back on candy to relieve the boy’s hunger.

We had driven to the park in search of tranquility.  The weather had only recently warmed, but scullers from nearby Boathouse Row could already be seen on the river, much as Thomas Eakins had memorialized them on canvas a hundred years earlier.

Both Aretha and I knew that the park could be treacherous.  Purse snatchings, drug deals, assaults, even rapes had occurred there.  Like Philadelphia – like America, herself – the park is an amalgam of contradictions.

“Wha’ ch’u thinkin’ ?” Aretha asked.  My thoughts were on Jonathan’s future, his place in this world, his chances.  “Nothing,” I replied, not wanting to spoil the moment.

Spartacus

The heart of Fairmount Park is presided over by the graceful Mann Center for the Performing Arts.  Here, outdoor concerts are given during the summer months.  Depending on the night, orchestral strains, opera, jazz, “pop” or rock music fills the night.

Aretha and I more than once found refuge from our worries at the Mann.  Lying on the grass with hundreds of others, blankets spread, the music all around us, we could for awhile maintain the illusion of peace on earth.

Excepting her little sister’s school recital, Aretha saw her first ballet at the Mann.  Strangely enough, it was “Spartacus,” the true story of a slave rebellion in ancient Rome, not readily adaptable to the ballet format.

The company performing that night was the world class Bolshoi Theater.  I did not envy the Russian dancers.  The night was as steamy as any in New York had ever been.

We were late arriving, so parked in a slapdash manner in the first spot we could find on the grass, then ran toward the box office.  I had learned with Aretha not to buy tickets ahead of time.  Too often, life intervened, and the tickets went to waste.

We found seats in the uppermost tiers, the heat sweltering.  I wondered whether Aretha would enjoy the performance, under these conditions.  We began fanning ourselves with anything within reach, but were by then committed to staying.

From the moment the ballet began, Aretha’s eyes never left the stage.  She was entranced.  Granted, the dancers were wonderful, fully living up to their reputation.  The music soared.  However, it was the subject matter which captured Aretha’s attention.

I thought she might find the stylized battle scenes unpersuasive, unrealistic.  Not so, at all.  Though the scenery was minimal, the staging was so effective that both of us gasped when the main character was raised high on the “cross” formed by other dancers’ arms.

We clapped till our hands hurt.

Aretha was pensive as we left.  “I di’n’ expec’ that, at the end,” she said.  “And he died for freedom.”

I was ashamed to have underestimated her.  How though had this sensitivity, this appreciation for beauty, survived the many assaults against it?  I could only wonder.

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https://avoicereclaimed.com