These are the peaceful hours. 10pm-8am, or 11-7? Tonight, just outside Calgary, Alberta, at 10pm it is still light. This place is big. We're in one of its furthest suburbs, section C, right next to the Overflow. The trash containers are plentiful and close-by. And there's more space between us and our neighbors than usual. But even when there isn't, this is a peaceful time.
Most of the dog walking is over and people have disappeared. Gone inside. The couples who walk together after dinner, some dutifully, some talking quietly, some heads up—looking for someone to smile at. Tonight there's conversation next door. Two men sitting on the picnic table, talking about packing, weight, their vehicles, the 22ft Prowler too small with the grandkids coming sometimes, a new 34 foot with triple slides, practically stolen the price was so good.
Hearing conversations at this hour isn't usual in our hermetic experience. And while it might be distracting, something about it makes me feel at home. Or I should say, takes me back to childhood before fences, in the summer, maybe when twilight was coming. We might have been inside in bed, with the windows open, trying to fall asleep. But the men, home from work finally, and done with dinner, might be talking. And if you strained to listen, it was interesting. Sometimes the conversation of men—when it's slow and even, moved by the energy of facts, measurements and numbers—can be peaceful. Can lull a kid to sleep—even a kid trying hard to stay awake.
Now it's quiet here. And during these peaceful hours, there's almost always a highway cutting some kind of stripe in the silence. But that's peaceful too. Or when a siren does sound, it's not like you're a child whose dad is out moonlighting, not home yet. Or a mother whose teenager is out driving with friends. There are no loved ones nearby. Wherever they are, their lives flow out, like mine, as they will.
After a day on the road—vigilant, and overcome sometimes by the land flowing by, and the sky so strong—it feels good to be part of these boxes lined up neatly, angled, row after row. Or in other places where we are few, scattered and funky. The evening's chores done. The sky another shade of blue or gray. Windows here and there glowing with that familiar soft light. Home, but not home.
Most of the dog walking is over and people have disappeared. Gone inside. The couples who walk together after dinner, some dutifully, some talking quietly, some heads up—looking for someone to smile at. Tonight there's conversation next door. Two men sitting on the picnic table, talking about packing, weight, their vehicles, the 22ft Prowler too small with the grandkids coming sometimes, a new 34 foot with triple slides, practically stolen the price was so good.
Hearing conversations at this hour isn't usual in our hermetic experience. And while it might be distracting, something about it makes me feel at home. Or I should say, takes me back to childhood before fences, in the summer, maybe when twilight was coming. We might have been inside in bed, with the windows open, trying to fall asleep. But the men, home from work finally, and done with dinner, might be talking. And if you strained to listen, it was interesting. Sometimes the conversation of men—when it's slow and even, moved by the energy of facts, measurements and numbers—can be peaceful. Can lull a kid to sleep—even a kid trying hard to stay awake.
Now it's quiet here. And during these peaceful hours, there's almost always a highway cutting some kind of stripe in the silence. But that's peaceful too. Or when a siren does sound, it's not like you're a child whose dad is out moonlighting, not home yet. Or a mother whose teenager is out driving with friends. There are no loved ones nearby. Wherever they are, their lives flow out, like mine, as they will.
After a day on the road—vigilant, and overcome sometimes by the land flowing by, and the sky so strong—it feels good to be part of these boxes lined up neatly, angled, row after row. Or in other places where we are few, scattered and funky. The evening's chores done. The sky another shade of blue or gray. Windows here and there glowing with that familiar soft light. Home, but not home.
posted by Susan at 7:07 PM
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