FORGOTTEN SCHENLEY

Jim Daniels

Schenley Park, Pittsburgh

Today on semi-toppled slippery stone steps shaded dark by summer greening up from Panther Hollow to the drinking fountain in front of the conservatory, I stopped. On the landing before the final turn toward sunlight, where even kindness seems calculated today, woozy and exposed in sudden heat, even fountain water a tepid mockery of relief—a woman near my age, sixty, took photos with a tripod camera and lenses that only people our age still use.

I don’t talk to strangers on the trail— a wave or nod. At sixty, my inside trails are diverting enough. But this woman, short white hair like mine, drew me into focus, intent on getting something seriously right. Hey, what you got there, I asked, stopping on the step below to not disturb. Phlox, she said, or something—a name I did not recognize. More of a weed I’d walk right past. Kids with phones shoot everything instead of just living life and remembering it, damn it! Saying TMI for Too Much Information but all I think is Three Mile Island. I date myself like ink price stampers before UPC codes. I have early onset dementia, she said. I’m shooting a series called “Forgotten Schenley.” We run out of excuses for not telling the truth.

My mother, 91, has no filter, I explain to my kids when she comments on somebody’s weight or a fond memory of sex on a lazy afternoon. I was going to write, all I could say was good luck. In the interest of truth, I could have said any number of more sympathetic things. I sincerely meant good luck, not that sarcastic good luck with that kids say in response to insane optimism or blind naivety.

She didn’t thank me—on her tickingclock mission with memory. I hope it’s ticking like those clocks on bombs in bad movies, endlessly extended in the name of suspense. For her, the bomb is already exploding in slow-motion. A lot for her to forget about Schenley—456 acres of it. I’ve already told my family I want my ashes spread there—in memory of trails, the playground, swimming pool, picnics, soccer games, and on, and on, right, my photographer friend?

The steps can take your breath away if you’re not in shape or careful. Will my memory be in shape, not putting on pounds?

At 91, my mother has few friends left to confirm or contradict memories. Just last month she told me a neighbor had abused her as a child. She’d spoken up about it then, but nothing was done.

No comfort that he’s dead now, is there, Mom? The bar for comfort lowers as we age. After all, we don’t want to trip on that bar and crack all our expensive lenses.

Since I turned sixty, strange things bring me to tears, and I’ve never been much of a crier. Not something we do in our family. When you lose a brother and sister before you’re out of high school, you go, fuck tears; right, Dad? At 91, he still won’t talk about them though now he blames failing memory. He got a new car and a hearing aid, so things are looking up for him. My blind mother capitalizes Memory.

The woman might still be out on the trail— healthy enough to do those steep steps to bend to the tepid water at the top— covering and recovering ground.

At the top, I saw something she missed, so I want to fill her in. We’ve got more bridges than anywhere except Venice, according to Pittsburgh, though they’ve been fudging facts to keep millennials from abandoning us for hipper Burghs. Like in Paris, young lovers latch locks of love onto the Panther Hollow Bridge. Both Pittsburgh and Paris begin with P and you don’t have to go all the way to Paris to be a romantic fool, right,

Mom and Dad? They celebrated their 60th in Detroit by re-creating wedding pictures outside the Belle Isle Conservatory minus all the dead people. My mother couldn’t bend to sit on the grass like in the old photos. She couldn’t see them anyway, so did it matter? It mattered a lot. Lots of kinds of blindness, and we all suffer from at least a couple.

I crossed the street to the lock-laden bridge. A car double-parked, and a girl ran out and clicked a lock, ran back to where her boyfriend sat, engine running. As if a cop was going to ticket them for that. They drove off into traffic, past the museum famous for dinosaurs and a steam smokestack known by literary romantics as The Cloud Factory. I waved. I wiped away tears. Maybe I’m starting to lose my filter. I’m not saying Paris isn’t nice, but I’ve got a new slogan for Pittsburgh: Fuck Paris. Maybe that’s why the city wouldn’t hire me. I shed a few of my ashes.

My wife and I clicked on one of the first locks. You can’t even read our initials on it now, but that’s okay, isn’t it, my Forgotten Schenley friend? The lovers should have taken their time and done it right, putting the lock on together and smooching a good long while. I hope they weren’t on their way out of town.

If you get a ticket for double parking on the bridge to click on a lock, appeal the fine. If the cop shows up to testify, the only thing I’d have to say to him is Good luck with that.

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