Red's Wrap
Happiness. It's relative.
Blaney Park
I don’t feel sorry for old things the way some people do.
It doesn’t make me sad that people don’t want to stay here anymore, that these cabins have been empty for thirty years, maybe more.
The place looks like it has no regrets, looks like it has lived every minute that its wood and shingles, nails and window panes afforded, looks like it won’t quit until it’s ready to sink into its own green earth.
I understand that and feel at home here.
2 Comments on “Blaney Park”
Leave a Reply
Recent Comments
 | deborah wenzler farr… on The End of Mean Charlie |
 | Deb on The End of Mean Charlie |
 | beth on The End of Mean Charlie |
| beth on Old Beautiful Debts |
| beth on Sisterhood |
Snow Door | wisconsinacademy.org
Listen to Jan read her essay “Billy” presented on WUWM’s Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “At the Breakfast Bar” on WUWM Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “The Parish Hall,” on WUWM Lake Effect
“Fury Cannot Touch Me,” Modern Love, NYT, 9/29/11
It looks like the cabins near my house that the scouts camp at each summer. I always feel like they still hold laughter and that the screen doors screech with age-old activity.
What a wonderful post, Jan. I, too, am very matter of fact about the ebbs and flows of social life. Maybe it comes with age – as we realize that our bodies are falling apart and won’t “function” forever. I did a post on Blaney Park a couple of years ago. I went with a friend to Escanaba so she could attend a funeral. On the way home we turned into Blaney Park because I have always been fascinated with it.