Sod of Destiny
A clear-eyed poet once observed: “Everyone has their Lenox story.” Here’s ours.
A beautiful August afternoon, Sunday at Tanglewood. My wife and I have come to hear the Boston Symphony, who will be playing Beethoven’s Ninth. Neither of us is very enthusiastic about classical music, but the vision of sitting on soft grass in the New England shade of a big old tree is all the motivation we need, not to mention a pair of free tickets. We arrive early to claim our “lawn seats.” We spread out a freshly-laundered picnic blanket, sit down, and take in the bucolic Berkshire scene.
Before long, caravans of well-dressed picnickers descend on our little patch of God’s country. They stake out their own plots. They are freighted with accoutrements. We watch as they unfold cozy Helinox chairs and portable mahogany picnic tables from oversized suitcases. Linen tablecloths are spread, followed by china and crystal and silverware. All we have are a couple cans of beer: no dainty viands, no propane-fired camp oven, no gilded champagne bucket, no candelabra. Soon enough, every swath of green is transformed into somebody’s outdoor living room. Ice cream venders are making their rounds through this pop-up suburbia alfresco. Unwittingly, we have arrived in a desirable neighborhood.
Music starts up from beneath the Music Shed. The acoustics are terrible, but nobody seems to mind. They don’t even notice that the performance has begun. We finish our beer, fold up the blanket, and “move camp” to another spot, further away from the Music Shed, beyond the last ice cream vender. We lay out the blanket, sit down, and pretend we’re listening to a performance of John Cage’s Four Thirty-Three.
A couple of policemen, dressed in casual concert civvies, walk past. They are accompanied by their dapper service dog, a well-groomed golden retriever. The younger of the two cops handles the leash. Not far past our blanket, the pooch decides it’s time. He stops and takes a big, steamy crap on one of the last untrammeled strips of Tanglewood lawn. He takes his sweet time. When he finishes, he kicks back a little dirt and looks up joyously at his human partners. The older of the two cops says to the younger one: “Get a good look—that’s your future spreading out before your eyes.”
The dog is wagging his tail. The younger cop is scowling. He hands his partner the leash, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a black plastic bag. He fits it over his hand like a glove. He stoops down and reaches toward the sublimating heap on the grass, scooping it up like pro. He secures the payload and deposits it in a nearby trashcan. Next he kicks up a little dust from the gravel path, collects a handful, and sprinkles it on the profaned spot. Good cop! Off they go then, the two men and their dog.
A few minutes later, an elderly couple approaches, slowly from the other direction. He is wearing an old man’s sweater and Hush Puppies. She is wearing an elegant black dress with a light jacket over it. She has black sandals on her feet. The two of them are wearing big hats to block the sun. They look like they’re feeling the heat. They stop. She removes her sandals. He watches. She wants to feel the warm currents of summer grass pulsing between her bare toes. Not him. His Hush Puppies stay put. He’s happy with things just the way they are. Now she’s holding the sandals in one hand, her husband’s hand in the other, and the two of them resume their slow journey.
Maybe you see where this Lenox story is heading.
Closer and closer the elderly couple draws toward that fateful spot, as if compelled by the mysterious causes and conditions that all of us are subject to. Then it happens. The barefoot lady steps right where, not long since, the golden retriever conducted his business—and, God have mercy on us all—she halts on the very spot! Her husband does too, but at least he’s got those Hush Puppies on his feet to run interference. The two of them start chatting sweetly about all the things that a couple who has been together for fifty years chats about under the life-giving summer sun of a Tanglewood afternoon. This continues.
My wife and I sit in stunned witness. We can’t take our eyes off what is unfolding. The situation seems fraught with danger—and questions. What should we do? Go over and let them know where they stand? Will they think we’re pulling a prank? Or that we had a few too many? Or that we’re simply nuts? Will they call over the cops and their well-groomed dog? Isn’t this one of those situations in which the messenger necessarily gets slain? Surely the elegant, barefoot lady is enjoying the smooth, fluid warmth of that summer grass between her toes. Who are we to shatter anybody’s summer bliss at Tanglewood?
Finally, we’re released from our difficulties. The elderly couple moves on, still chatting, still blissful, until they reach the gravel path—the same path where the younger cop had kicked up a little dust. Here the lady puts her black sandals back on her feet. And with that, the two of them resume their slow walk into the rest of their lives.
As for us, my wife says to me, “When we get home, we’re washing this blanket.”
©John P. O’Grady
Originally appeared in The Mountain Eagle on March 12, 2021
