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You think it’s my sweater?

I could tell that excitement was building for Linc and Lola as we approached the nearly completed Memorial tunnels on our way to the Eastern Glades for their Sunday walk.

Tails were wagging and noses were pressed against the newly washed car windows. They were ready to start strolling and wanted me to get there already quit musing about the tunnels.

See, I’ve been wondering for awhile now, exactly how these tunnels are supposed to function.  I’ve read that the purpose is to assist wildlife in getting safely from one side of the park to the other and while I think this is a great idea, I find myself pondering exactly how safe this will be for the residents of the park.

By my calculations the north side of the tunnel structure will line up with the golf course. I’m worried that the armadillos will have to dodge golf balls as they explore their new playground.

This Sunday’s stroll in the park was the quintessential Houston experience.

As we crossed the lawns heading toward the boardwalk we saw big kid soccer players moving their soccer balls across the lawn and little kid soccer players doing the same, and, no joke, I saw a little baby soccer player, who might have learned to walk maybe a week ago, kicking a little tiny baby sized soccer ball toward a net.

I could have watched this baby all day. Kick, fall down boom, get up again. Kick, fall down boom, get up again.

We heard the sounds of mariachis coming from one of the picnic pavilions. Some lucky teen had just turned 17, or so the sign said, and let me tell you, I wanted to get an invitation to this party.

The smell of the fajitas coming from the grill was drawing me closer and closer.  I felt a tug on my sweater. TWWNCNBUIP was pulling me back whispering something about not being allowed to crash a teenage picnic.

Linc and Lola were busy sniffing every square inch of the park and I found myself smiling and nodding at all the folks strolling by, some hand in hand, some pushing actual strollers, many folks  were walking their dogs and, as is often the case in Houston, I heard multiple languages being spoken.  I love this about our town.

Anyway, as people passed, we would smile, nod, sometimes say “Hi” or “Good afternoon.” or some other greeting, including “Greetings.”

Everyone we passed nodded and smiled and offered their greetings in return…except for one guy. He looked right at me. I smiled. I said “Hi” but he just looked away and walked on.

“Hmmm,” I said. I was wondering aloud why this man didn’t acknowledge my warm greeting.

“Do you think it’s my sweater?” I asked TWWNCNBUIP.

“Your sweater is very nice.

Maybe he was lost in thought.” said she.

Maybe he was wondering about how the armadillos were going to navigate that golf course.



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