Discover Walla Walla

        From my desk I have a window-framed view of Main Street here in Walla Walla. While I gaze out the window looking for inspiration, I watch folks come and go through the double glass doors at Bright's Candies.
        A young mother in skimpy black marathoner shorts, wrap-around sunglasses, and a hot pink sports bra parks her doublewide stroller in front of Bright's. She's talking on her cell phone, wrestling one of the blonde-haired kids back into his stroller seat, and wagging her finger at a long-eared Bassett Hound puppy leashed to the stroller frame.
        Deep-based rap music blasts from a sleek-black Mercedes stopped at the Second Street light. My window rattles to the beat. I think, "If Hollywood does a remake of The Graduate, the old guy should whisper ‘audiology' instead of ‘plastics'..."
        The Mercedes rolls through the intersection followed by a trolley bus.
        About twenty kids, several moms, and a dad stroll the sidewalk in front of Bright's. They're all playing violins, except the dad. He's capturing the event on a video camera. I open my window. The music is beautiful.
        An elderly gentleman emerges from Bright's. He's wearing white Nikes, neatly creased khakis, a blue cotton shirt, and a pork-pie hat. He dodges the young mother still talking on her cell phone, the stroller, and the floppy-eared puppy. He sits on a wood-slat chair under the metal awning, eating a scoop of vanilla ice cream perched atop a brown cone.

        Now he's talking to the young mother who's still talking on her cell phone. 
        He nods. 
        The young mother disappears through the doors.  
        A few minutes later she returns with ice cream cones for the stroller-bound kids. She's still talking on her cell phone. One of the toddlers extends his cone to the Bassett Hound puppy. The ice cream disappears. I hear the toddler scream. 
        The old guy watches. 
        I close my window.
        The young mother, still talking on her cell phone, wags her finger at the puppy.
        I wonder, "Does she ever talk to her kids?" 
        Three gray-haired ladies toting Macy's shopping bags stop in front of Bright's and huddle up, occasionally turning toward the plate-glass window where Paul is making fudge. One of the ladies-a short, round woman in a green sundress and lime-green heels starts toward the doors motioning the others to follow. 
        They don't. 
        The green-sun-dress lady, shaking her head, returns to the huddle. The ladies talk some more and stroll left out of my window-frame. 
        A few minutes later, they're back. The green-sun-dress lady is leading again. There's no hesitation this time. They go in. I don't see them come out.
        A maroon Toyota Corolla parks in front of Bright's. It bears California license plates. There's a Whitman College sticker in the rear window. A balding man wearing a white shirt gets out and hikes up his dark gray slacks.
        The remnants of a fast food meal lie in the street at his feet-a brown paper bag, a flattened big-gulp cup, burger wrappers, bun fragments and a few fries, a handful of tiny napkins. It's a ketchup-splattered mess.
        The California man looks down at the mess and steps over it, then stands on the sidewalk looking my way for a moment, turns and walks right out of my window-frame.
        The air-conditioner in my office comes on. A soft whoosh fills the air. I write a check to the power company and put it in the return envelope. Gotta pay the bills. 
        The California guy is back. He has a Starbucks cup in hand. He steps off the curb to get back into his car. The fast-food mess is still there. 
        He sets his coffee cup on the hood of his car and picks up the mess. He deposits the mess in the trash can on the sidewalk, wipes his hands on his slacks, picks up his coffee cup, gets into his car, backs out of his parking spot, and drives left-out of my window-frame.

If you'd like to read more of Sam's musings, visit his website at www.sammcleod.net