One day after work, I’m walking Riley through the dog park on my way to drop off my ballot at the box just outside the library. I notice the usual crowd has already begun to gather. They sit in mismatched plastic lawn chairs, the kind you find in the seasonal section at Walmart. Riley pauses to s niff and casually lifts a leg to claim a couple of them. Some of the chairs are tricked out with bottle-cages that somebody probably salvaged from a few old bike frames. If you’re going to hang out someplace every day, you might as well have a proper drink holder. I recognize a couple of the regulars and say hi. They all seem to know each other and each other’s dogs. My friend Shelane, who used to live down the block, is always telling me I should join in. One time, I happened to be passing through when they were holding one of their weekly potlucks. They were welcoming enough, but I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider. Like I’d accidentally stumbled into the middle of somebody’s living room. Another morning, the living room was empty. As my friend Sherri and I walked our dogs through the park, we came upon a woman and her small poodle. We struck up a conversation. Turns out she lives in Salt Lake and comes up once a month to have her dog groomed. Before long, the three of us pulled up plastic chairs and fell into a discussion of politics, perimenopause and the absurdity of life while our dogs circled around, sniffing each other’s butts. We exchanged phone numbers so she could let us know next time she comes up. I got up to retrieve Riley when he started to stray too far. That’s when I saw a lady with two dogs approaching. “That brown dog pooped,” she said sternly. “It’s not my dog,” I replied. “But he pooped. Over there,” she said. Apparently when shit happens in public spaces, the poop police are never far behind. But not everyone needs a plastic chair or a poop police badge to claim their space in a park. I remember visiting a small park just beyond Sacre Coeur in Montmartre a few years ago. It was autumn and the ground was covered in red and gold leaves. I came to a spot where 10 or 12 kids were sliding down a grassy hill. As I got closer, I noticed they were sliding on cardboard boxes—some sitting as if on a sled; some standing like the big kahuna. They were all experimenting with different techniques, inventing a new sport right before my eyes. I wondered what started the game. Was there one OG inventor and the rest of the kids followed suit? Where did they find the cardboard? Did they even know each other? Last weekend, a different game was taking shape on the field outside the Mine, the new rec center in City Park. I saw dozens of women running around passing a ball back and forth. In the parking lot, I passed a woman unloading some gear from the back of a truck. “Are you guys playing rugby?” I asked. “We are,” she replied. I told her I played on the women’s rugby squad at St. Bonaventure in the late 1900s. I politely declined her invitation to join in. “You guys would kill me,” I laughed. But as I crossed the field, watching the ball being passed from player to player, I felt a rush of adrenaline. For a moment, I was back on the pitch, waiting for the kickoff.   That night, I headed for the bus stop to meet some friends on Main Street. As I got closer, I noticed a guy taking the domed lid off the garbage can. When I reached the stop, he was sitting on the lid, smoking a butt and drinking a can of Bud. He looked like a weathered California surfer dude: flannel shirt, blond Mohawk, deeply tanned skin. “Looks like you’re all set for the weekend,” I said. He seemed surprised that I’d spoken to him. I noticed when he smiled most of his teeth were missing. I told him I’d seen him in the park from time to time. He said his name was Randy. He asked me if I’d ever seen his waterfall. He said he’s been working on it for years, just beyond a berm I’ve passed countless times on the Rail Trail near the paddle courts. I imagined the waterfall that lay just beyond it like some lost ruin of an ancient civilization. Walking past the courts one morning, I thought about walking up the berm to have a look, but resisted the temptation, and instead paused for a moment to listen. All I heard was the rush of traffic on Deer Valley Drive, punctuated by the cries and grunts of the pickleball ladies with their Lululemon skorts and $300 paddles. Right now, just knowing Randy’s waterfall was there was enough. The post Betty Diaries: A park of one’s own appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less