Last night a few friends and I ventured to the nearby city of Berkeley for a dinner of fondue and watery wine. Two of the others handled most of the planning, and I was surprisingly content with allowing someone else make decisions on my behalf. That is, I was content until I discovered that visiting Tilden Park would not be among our adventures for the evening.
To say I was devastated would be an exaggeration, but only a slight one. I don't know what it is about that park. I just love it. The merry-go-round is a merry-go-round much like every other I've ridden. It's surrounded by stand after stand of ornament vendors of things I'm sure will never fit the decor of my tree and yet seem so appealing. Hot cider tastes better, even if it's the same package I use at home. Something about the lights and anticipation of tradition gets me excited anytime I hear the park's name. I've never fought at Tilden Park. I've never been disappointed or angry. It's almost as though there is a magical protection keeping the sacred grounds from any 'bah humbug' spirits. I'm glad Christmas spirit is safe somewhere.
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