On Fridays when the weather is accommodating I
often go to the greenhouse park in Boulogne-Billancourt.
The grass in this park is always trimmed, and
most of the time I only see older men and women, who hint on the side of
elderly, but I’m sure they wouldn’t admit to it. They often dress from another
era. My favourite look for the gentlemen: hand-knit cardigans, thick-rimmed
glasses, and tailored slacks, assumingly held up by a handsome pair of suspenders.
Pour les dames: curled silver strands pinned back with tortoise shell barrettes
and complimenting neutral toned wool suits with pencil skirts and always
pantyhose. I imagine them all having a similar collection of Charles Aznavour
records, with interiors covered in vintage wallpaper and fine, dark wood
antique dining room sets.
Sometimes together, often times alone or with a furry companion. Lately the common thread is not only the era-dressing, but the pastime activity they all seem to be participating in: simply sitting on a bench and admiring the golden tones of autumn. Every now and then, a child makes an appearance, and immediately becoming the focusing view, “Ces jeunes; une telle énergie!”
Sometimes together, often times alone or with a furry companion. Lately the common thread is not only the era-dressing, but the pastime activity they all seem to be participating in: simply sitting on a bench and admiring the golden tones of autumn. Every now and then, a child makes an appearance, and immediately becoming the focusing view, “Ces jeunes; une telle énergie!”
One particularly energetic set of siblings ran
across the well-marked keep-of-grass to dive into a pile of bright amber leaves.
Then they scurried along towards the greenhouse, the main attraction. Never-ending
summer inside, the greenhouse plants are ignorant to the changing tones beyond
the glass walls. The only hints of golden tones are from the coy fish
swimming in the center pond. I love the idea of life in a greenhouse.
Once the sun sets and the glass doors are locked, what goes on inside?
Once the sun sets and the glass doors are locked, what goes on inside?
There are bird cages filled with tropical
chirping birds, but at night instead of their chirping do they discuss politics
or do they prefer poetry?
And the coy fish, always seen swimming in circles waiting for bread crumbs from stale baguettes. At night are they tired of the same old fish faces they’ve been making all day? Do they indulge in smiles and laughter, showing their gummy, peculiar fish teeth smiles?
I wonder about the plants, with their healthy lush leaves and their many branches for arms; do they move about embracing each other? Perhaps unlocking the doors to get a breeze of autumn air.
And the coy fish, always seen swimming in circles waiting for bread crumbs from stale baguettes. At night are they tired of the same old fish faces they’ve been making all day? Do they indulge in smiles and laughter, showing their gummy, peculiar fish teeth smiles?
I wonder about the plants, with their healthy lush leaves and their many branches for arms; do they move about embracing each other? Perhaps unlocking the doors to get a breeze of autumn air.
It’s all so curious, but I have a feeling that
the man, who tends to them, always wearing a newsboy cap and soil-stained
overalls, has an idea of such greenhouse scenes.
Bisous,
Reba
Reba
