EDITOR: Okay, so I have to admit it. I didn’t like the building.
I mean, pink and green? Come on … But I also must admit to prior
prejudice. You see, I had come to love those two perfect, tilting
reaching careening conifers in front of that falling down school
house. Heck, the corner was lush, if not well-kept.
EDITOR:
Okay, so I have to admit it. I didn’t like the building. I mean, pink and green? Come on … But I also must admit to prior prejudice. You see, I had come to love those two perfect, tilting reaching careening conifers in front of that falling down school house. Heck, the corner was lush, if not well-kept.
So, I was more or less horrified when I drove by and saw those piles of what had been trees. Rubble on the ground made of living arms and once reaching dark green, defiant limbs. Mounds of sawdust and wood rounds.
I love trees. And big old trees planted in public spaces, well, it seems to me that when we lose the big old trees we lose the place. The feel. The sense of those who planted them, and the vision they provided for us. It’s sort of like tearing down monuments. Not a good idea.
In the wake of those trees, the building just didn’t do a thing for me. Oh, it’s probably some new idea of “style” or of “function” or something equally intangible and hard to explain but to me it’s just a lot of pink and green and pomp.
Then I received the community class schedule in the mail, describing lots of wonderful and interesting things going on in this strange place. I began to soften. I began to think it might be all right after all … Perhaps there was some redemption possible.
I’d always liked the idea of the playhouse. Somehow, theatre and the form of that old church building hadn’t offended my sensibilities, even as a part of this whole “complex”.
So Thursday night last week I went into the new building to sign up for, and, I hoped, begin a sculpture class. The class was postponed until Jan. 22, and so, regrettably, I didn’t sculpt any clay that night.
However, I met some remarkable and lovely people. There were the guys from the volunteer emergency response team … Bill and some others whose names I cannot now recall. A woman signing up her daughter-in-law for a new mothers and babies class, cheerfully helping the lady behind the desk, who had come in to replace a sick employee, and had not yet had her training, to run the credit card machine. This soon to be grandma, expressing her joy at finding this class for her soon to be born grandchild and inexperienced, yet, enthusiastic, soon to be new mom.
Then there was the gal who runs the recreation department, a lovely and helpful person “just stopped by to pick something up” and was, predictably, at work within a moment. Finding keys for the fellows and answers for the new help just learning the ropes.
Watching all these fellow humans in action, doing their thing in a world full of all sorts of minor catastrophes, from sick employees to the inevitable schedule mix-ups of new classes and courses coming into form, I didn’t mind the missing trees so much.
I walked the grounds on my way home. The fountain is different. Okay, so square might be a theme. I’d have gone serpentine, myself. But then, I’d have kept the trees.
So, all you budding sculptors who are still holding out, we need you to rise up and come to class. It’s tough going on a first class, in a first try. Oh, by the next time the class comes round, it will fill right up, but that first time is always a bit iffy. So, please, find your way to the Pink and Green corner of Dunne and Monterey by Jan. 22 at 6:30 p.m. and sculpt your masterpiece.
Becky Mundt, Morgan Hill
