We go for a walk with my Dad on our visit. My Mom stays in the car, reads.
We climb a hill to a plateau where someone has built handrails. Someone else – more than one person, maybe – has done some artwork.
Is the artist disturbing it already? Or as a written act, does it go unspoken? We read it aloud.
We all giggle. I most like the small, inadequate Tyrannosaurus Rex-like arms. Useless, flailing. He is an angry penis.
My dad takes a break and we continue up the hill, talking about Descartes, about thinking before being, about graffiti and then some more reflections on the angry penis.
A walk and picnic planned for Lynde turns into a wet adventure.
We only just get out when the rain pours on us. We eat lunch in the car, then walk under the shelter of the trees. There are many chipmunks, picky, turning down peanuts for sunflower seeds. Squirrels and ducks shadow us but do not come close. There is a new fence along the pathway.
We leave wet and dirty. We are okay with that.