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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Archives Revels Classifieds Real Estate Guide Weather Subscribe Contact Us February 17, 2005 A simple Ashland day: A thing of beauty Andrew Scot Bolsinger It's late afternoon in what is supposed to be the dead of winter in Ashland. Children play on the playground in short sleeves. The sun remains above the mountain peaks, delightfully warm and comforting. A bird chirps. A child laughs. A remote control car buzzes past. A child yells. A mother yells back. A dog barks. The colors of greens, blues and puffy whites merge together in a living landscape portrait as if a painter is crafting an image of a perfect sunny day. It could be any day, in any park, seemingly anywhere in the country, or even the world for that matter. But reminders exist as well about what makes this day, and this park so specific to this time and place. A young woman, really a girl from the looks of her face, gathers a small, dirt-streaked toddler into her arms and snugs her tightly into her left hip. With her right arm she stuffs toys from the sand into a bag. Two other children, about a year and two years older than the toddler come around her. "Mom, I don't want to go," says the oldest, about five. "Here momma," says the middle child, handing a doll to the mother who swiftly adds it to the bag while continuing to hug the baby to her hip. "Come on," the girl/woman says, actually more patiently than one would expect from a young mother who looks so much more like a child than a woman. It's even more startling, though it shouldn't be, when she gets behind the wheel after buckling the brood into their seats and drives away. Rationally it makes sense that a mother of three is old enough to drive, but you still blink your eyes because she just doesn't look it. The young mother is not alone in this illusory day where looking past the normal facade is another reality less likely, less typical. The remote control car again comes buzzing past, abruptly turning to the right onto a blacktop winding path with expert skill. The purring noise of the wheels crunching on pavement fades as the car leaves, only to resume again a few moments later as it comes back around. It's a long, complicated circuitous path, but at every turn the car easily maneuvers along. The driver is not to be seen. To the left, by the benches? No, just a 30-something woman talking on a cellphone. Above, on the playground? No, three kids yell and hoot, and twirl around the bars like a snake slithering up a tree trunk. As the car makes yet another pass, another remote car crosses its path, followed almost immediately by a six-year-old boy who is less adept as the unforeseen driver of the first car. He struggles more, starting and stopping. Turning left, turning right. Correcting his path. His tongue pops from the corner of his mouth while his little fingers work the levers of his remote. Soon his car is also out of the sand and onto the blacktop path, just about the time the other car is making its way back again. Still the driver is hidden from view. The curiosity about the clearly expert hand at the control of the car is too much to overcome so a new vantage point is sought, up from the bench, toward a tree, for a new perspective. At last the driver comes into view. A lean, sinewy man easily moves the controls at his finger tips, his eyes following the car's movements almost in a trance-like state. The man's white beard hides his straight mouth. He is not working to guide the car, but virtually melding it with from his remote place to guide in along its now very repetitive path: Down the sand, hard left, up swerving along the blacktop, speeding back toward the driver himself, hard right, over a bump, back into the sand followed by a burst of speed along the playground's border. Again and again and again. The boy meanwhile has backed his smaller, less powerful car into a bush. After a couple of failed attempts, he strides over, grabs the car and places it back onto the playground. A man, easily 60 or more with a gray beard and a long ponytail speaks softly to the boy. Together they examine the tires before placing the car back on its wheels. The boy pushes with his thumb, his tongue peeks out and the car is propelled forward onto the bumpy sand. "Thanks Dad," he says over his shoulder as he follows the car. Like a rock dropping to the bottom of a crystal clear pond, the sun falls heavily behind the mountain. The driver packs up his remote, grabs his wife's arm, who holds hands with their granddaughter as they walk away. The mother on the cellphone calls her son. One by one they disperse, virtually as fast as the temperature drops. The day is gone, but the portrait of illusion combined with stark realism has created an image of this town that will last. It's a thing of beauty. 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