I wish I could capture just one 45 minute walk in words on paper. That’s not reasonable, is it? Black tracks on white paper (or computer screen) cannot possibly capture the sights, the sounds and the memories–or can they?
Up the hill from Ellen’s house to West Overlook, turn right–why did I have a momentary sensation of walking in the village of Datchet near London, England? The houses are so different–San Diego two-bedroom tract houses individualized by their owners in the 50 years of their existence;–two story English homes of differing designs, “restored” how many times over how many years?
Datchet soon passed from my mind as my eyes caught the deep purple of clematis blooms in the next yard. I stopped to admire a bright green manicured yard with red and white curved brick flowerbeds on each side. With the flowers there were newly planted palm trees with the nursery tag still tied to one branch. Then, as I always do when I walk on this hill, I stopped at the clearings between the houses to see if I could see the ocean and the Coronado bridge. Foliage and fences have grown since my first walk along this street with Jim and Ellen over 20 years ago. I didn’t see the bridge, but I got a glimpse of the tops of skyscrapers against the afternoon sun.
How different we creatures are who create or decorate according to our own individual tastes. One home had a row of the new large colored light bulbs on stems stuck in the ground along their curved front walk. On their porch was an all-white artificial tree with no needles; instead the small clear lights were glittering modestly. On a corner lot there were yucca cactus plants with a couple of Santa hats on the taller branches.
The yards were as diversified as the Christmas decorations. Rocks and pebbles were popular, easier to care for, saving of water. I saw smaller and larger pebbles in different colors–white, black, red, gray–One yard had the larger smooth oval-shaped rocks like the kind I picked up at Solana Beach a few years ago. Another yard looked like a small jungle. I wondered if anyone lived there;–but through the tangle there was just enough open space that I could see a lighted tree through the window. Roses were blooming in a few yards. I stopped to admire some white roses delicately edged in red.
I walked the loop of East and West Overlook twice so that I would be walking down Trojan Avenue toward the Banks’ house just after the sun went down, partly to avoid having the sun shine in my eyes, but also to have the privilege of viewing the lovely sunset.