drawing lesson, me sitting on our blanket in Cow Hollow, I will see her standing just so, staring toward the Fair, perhaps, the shroud of fog not yet hiding every detail. And I can't help but see the rough metal structure, the broken beams and welded rails there, in her posture, just below the surface. If I ripped her flesh away, there it would be, pounded, pushed and welded, the nails driven in to pinpoints by Mr. Taqdir and his team of sculptors. It's a horrible thought, but it's irresistible.
Watching Birds
_______________________________________________
1 JANUARY 1915
Each year begins with an outing to the dunes, and this year Mother insisted we bring her golf clubs. It's a little fad Mr. Taqdir has introduced us to. Father says it's all very silly.
We five went together, Duncan and Father and Mother and Mr. Taqdir and I, wrapped and muffled against the thick chilly fog, burdened by the puzzling array of clubs and a bucket of balls. I had no concerns, really, save the giddy feeling of the New Year and the doggy smell of my woolen sweater, wet from sweat on the inside and the salty ocean mists on the outside. The trolley dropped us off along the western edge of Sunset and disappeared into the mist, clang-clanging its impatient bell.
This morning there was no wind, just the thick cold clouds settled down onto the sands turning the landscape gray and leaving the dunes silent and still and damp. We marched west into the long wet reach of sand. Father leading without a word. Duncan and I caddied the clubs. Mother and Mr. Taqdir followed close behind discussing war, which Mr. Taqdir held to be a beautiful, though tragic, achievement of the human spirit. Mother's pointy shoes kept digging uncomfortably deep into the mucky sand and she was soon panting like a poodle, prompting Mr. Taqdir's speculations with nothing more than an occasional grunt or nod of the head. Duncan looked at me with a determined grin. We were Swiss soldiers in the Alps now, or Eskimos on a pilgrimage across the barren tundra.
I watched Father's sturdy back advancing farther and farther ahead into the high-shouldered dunes. His spyglasses swung to and fro as he pushed on, easily mounting a steep ridge and disappearing down the other side. We were somewhere in the middle. Sunset gone from sight, gulls wheeling high above, calling into the thick clouds. Father appeared, small and steady, mounting a more distant dune, and disappeared again down its far face.
"Perhaps we should tee off," Mother panted. Mr. Taqdir was sniffing the listless air, gazing north or west or east into the indistinct mists, staring through the damp nothing, across that whole hopeless expanse of gray dunes, staring expectantly, as though the bright flagged pins of the real golf course might be out there, somewhere, beckoning.
He pulled a little square of turf from his canvas fishing creel and laid it neatly on the sand, puncturing its middle with a small wooden tee.
"Yes," he harrumphed. "It is time." Duncan handed him a hefty driver. Mother was fishing about the bottom of her ample carpet bag, digging for golf balls, while Mr. Taqdir took a few fierce swings at nothing, his bulky driver whistling neatly through the empty air.
"Pumpkin," Mother called. "We've only a half dozen balls."
"But I packed the little bucket. Mummy," I assured her. "There were several dozen, at least." Mother's golfing style required an ample supply, particularly out in the dunes, where a well-hit ball was almost invariably lost. Father was a black speck on the farthest horizon, a tiny black nothing standing still atop the final dune, his arms raised, apparently pressing his powerful spyglasses to his face. A little white spot seemed to dangle at his waist.
"Is that your bucket?" Duncan asked, pointing out there at the distant dot of white. Indeed it was.
Pelicans were diving out at sea, there beyond Father, wheeling through the sky and turning a sharp pivot down, straight down into the ice-cold
Watching Birds
_______________________________________________
1 JANUARY 1915
Each year begins with an outing to the dunes, and this year Mother insisted we bring her golf clubs. It's a little fad Mr. Taqdir has introduced us to. Father says it's all very silly.
We five went together, Duncan and Father and Mother and Mr. Taqdir and I, wrapped and muffled against the thick chilly fog, burdened by the puzzling array of clubs and a bucket of balls. I had no concerns, really, save the giddy feeling of the New Year and the doggy smell of my woolen sweater, wet from sweat on the inside and the salty ocean mists on the outside. The trolley dropped us off along the western edge of Sunset and disappeared into the mist, clang-clanging its impatient bell.
This morning there was no wind, just the thick cold clouds settled down onto the sands turning the landscape gray and leaving the dunes silent and still and damp. We marched west into the long wet reach of sand. Father leading without a word. Duncan and I caddied the clubs. Mother and Mr. Taqdir followed close behind discussing war, which Mr. Taqdir held to be a beautiful, though tragic, achievement of the human spirit. Mother's pointy shoes kept digging uncomfortably deep into the mucky sand and she was soon panting like a poodle, prompting Mr. Taqdir's speculations with nothing more than an occasional grunt or nod of the head. Duncan looked at me with a determined grin. We were Swiss soldiers in the Alps now, or Eskimos on a pilgrimage across the barren tundra.
I watched Father's sturdy back advancing farther and farther ahead into the high-shouldered dunes. His spyglasses swung to and fro as he pushed on, easily mounting a steep ridge and disappearing down the other side. We were somewhere in the middle. Sunset gone from sight, gulls wheeling high above, calling into the thick clouds. Father appeared, small and steady, mounting a more distant dune, and disappeared again down its far face.
"Perhaps we should tee off," Mother panted. Mr. Taqdir was sniffing the listless air, gazing north or west or east into the indistinct mists, staring through the damp nothing, across that whole hopeless expanse of gray dunes, staring expectantly, as though the bright flagged pins of the real golf course might be out there, somewhere, beckoning.
He pulled a little square of turf from his canvas fishing creel and laid it neatly on the sand, puncturing its middle with a small wooden tee.
"Yes," he harrumphed. "It is time." Duncan handed him a hefty driver. Mother was fishing about the bottom of her ample carpet bag, digging for golf balls, while Mr. Taqdir took a few fierce swings at nothing, his bulky driver whistling neatly through the empty air.
"Pumpkin," Mother called. "We've only a half dozen balls."
"But I packed the little bucket. Mummy," I assured her. "There were several dozen, at least." Mother's golfing style required an ample supply, particularly out in the dunes, where a well-hit ball was almost invariably lost. Father was a black speck on the farthest horizon, a tiny black nothing standing still atop the final dune, his arms raised, apparently pressing his powerful spyglasses to his face. A little white spot seemed to dangle at his waist.
"Is that your bucket?" Duncan asked, pointing out there at the distant dot of white. Indeed it was.
Pelicans were diving out at sea, there beyond Father, wheeling through the sky and turning a sharp pivot down, straight down into the ice-cold
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