Grey September

This weekend is summers last hurrah. Back to school on Tuesday for the kidlets and goodbye to the tourists. This is a holiday of course. Labour Day weekend. And I am labouring.

The beach is grey and quiet. The tide gently nears the shore. An abondoned lawn chair still sits on the float now beached. My lonely heron sit on the tide marker post. I realise that cranes and herons are different birds but I am fairly certain this is a heron. As a runner pelst the sands, shoes in hand, my bird flies away.

It is 7:15 and the morning regulars pull into the lot by the change rooms. The affluent dog walkers who visit while their dogs strain at the leash, alas, no walk just a chat. These particular regulars all drive 100 thousand dollar vehicles. They may be in the sunset years but they arent immune to the shiny thing bug. Several of their luxury SUVs are overly gold-plated. The Octogenarian bling.

Today I am close enough that they look over to me and strain to read my visible name-tag. They wonder why I come and go in these spurts. Simple, Watson. Early morning weekend and holiday visits are fraught with a built-in hazard. NOONE wants to see Community Health at & am. Or 8am for that matter. My regular assignments this day these times are not pleased. So I come back to my beach.

I know that on my next assignment I am lucky to have my quiet helper. The gentlest of the Workers has the uncanny habit of seeming slightly dense altho he is very caring and capable.
The usual helper I get there is a stocky woman of bad attitude who broadcasts her distaste through her body language. Today's helper is possessed of that great trait which cannot be trained nor bought - the trait learned only by the willing.

More dogwalkers breeze by. The average age on the boardwalk this morning is 75. They walk, I sit but we both heal the spirit.