It's beginning to sound a lot like Christmas..

Cadman Park was virtually deserted last night, as Lola and I ambled about, sticking close to home the way we frequently do these days now that it's dark and cold and there's plenty of good television on. It's a comfortable pastime, dog and I, with the gentle rhythm of stop/go (me) and sniff/pee (her) carrying us around the neighbourhood each day in uninterrupted and contented silence. Sometimes we take longer than good manners deem appropriate when strolling by the un-shuttered windows of the old brownstones in Brooklyn Heights and drinking in the lifestyle to which we have yet to become accustomed in those vast tiled kitchens and sumptuous living rooms. Sometimes we wander carelessly along the Promenade, remembering just how much more magnificent Manhattan is when viewed from the outside. I love those walks because they remind me of the journey I'm on, what it took for me to get here, and where I'm going. But lately it's been Lola's choice and we've been spending a lot of time digging in the dirt and rolling in the leaves in the park.

Someone has planted little American Flags on the fence posts around the circular shrubbery arrangement in the middle of the park, and this irks me. I am, for some reason, irritated by such a blatant and unnecessary display of patriotism in my little corner of Brooklyn, though of course had these been tiny little Union Jacks I would have concocted an entire back story for their sudden and mysterious appearance and no doubt considered it a message from the universe at large, one of the side effects of my walks with Lola being the tendency of the mind to wander freely and run movies in my head.

Lola and I once wandered into the park early on a Sunday morning to find an elaborate breakfast for two, complete with table linens and china plates, champagne, flowers and a violinist, waiting patiently beneath the trees for it's party to arrive. I smiled about that all day. On another random rainy day I took this picture, which I'm quite fond of. A dad and a little girl of about 3 years old were running in circles in the rain just out of shot, but it was the umbrellas that pulled my focus. I think I like the idea of imagining who they belong to rather than telling the whole story.

For the past couple of weeks, aside from the ubiquitous helicopter that has been circling over the Brooklyn Bridge like a buzzard and which Lola has been keeping a close eye on lest it steal her soul, there has been one other constant in Cadman Park that I have come to look forward to encountering each day: the sound of a lone trumpeter patiently and carefully working on the opening refrain from Joy To The World, safely out of the way of dog walkers and runners looping around the edge of the park, bothering no-one and being left to his own devices in the shadow of the War Memorial. I have no idea what this guy is practicing for, but he is without doubt the most earnest and diligent musician I have ever encountered. He's out there every evening, rain or shine, bundled up and trying to make the notes work through gloved fingers, he isn't asking for an audience, he isn't asking for money. He's just trying to get this right, to play this piece of music as perfectly as he possibly can. And although I've never spoken to him -  I've never really even seen his face - I look for him each night as Lola and I stop/go, and sniff/pee, and snuffle past the tiny area of the park he has claimed as his own for these few moments. And thanks to this unassuming gentleman of indiscriminate age striving to be the best he can at this one festive task, thanks to the trimming of my tree and the gathering of friends around the piano in an impromptu raising of hearts and voices one Saturday evening in December, as I make my way through my first winter in Brooklyn, it's beginning to sound a lot like Christmas...