A Modest Request

Local Vignettes, Memoir 2 Minutes

One friend dubbed it, “writing with your feet.” That’s better than any description I ever had for my head-down, lost-in-thought scheming to the tune of a pair of New Balance high-cuts padding time.

As friends who live nearby know, I’m frequently taking walks on the road that runs the length of Plum Island’s wildlife refuge. Some have noticed that I sit for long spells on one of the two benches across from Parking Lot 3 in blessed silence save for the occasional passing vehicle. Or, they (you) see me sitting on the hill overlooking the marsh just before the gate.

While seated in either spot, I’m either scheming in a slower tempo–perhaps that of a duck or Canada goose or swan gliding on the panne–or reading the results of someone else’s scheme, plunged as much into their world as I am into my own while writing with my feet.

While I appreciate the friendly expressions of those driving past, I wish they (you) knew that the last thing I want to hear while walking or while seated is a car horn.

Even when I see a friend’s car approaching, the sound is not just jarring, but ruinous of the mood I’m in, derailing my Amtrak of thought and grounding all flights of fancy. When the car is behind or right aside me, I can feel my central nervous system shatter like a pane of glass smashed with a hammer.

That’s also true of a sudden voice from bicyclists who wait until they are already beside me. And how is it that, now that cyclists have these signs on the causeway telling motorists to give them four feet, some of them barely give a pedestrian one–even when there are no cars to be seen in either direction nearby?

Now that the seasons are changing, the experience of my last few walks–and of my seat just on the other side of this window where I write–does not bode well for the summer that is to come.

If only these friends would refrain from that reflexive urge, and perhaps send a greeting via email or social media or even a phone call: “Hey, I saw you today…” Or just let me know the next time we cross paths–with or without four-foot clearance.

Think of it as a season of conversation–free of noise.

-30-

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Published by buskersdelight

Jack Garvey (1951 - ) was born and raised in Lawrence, Mass., before attending Salem State College (now University} where his BA was delayed three semesters by The Log (the student newspaper), the anti-war movement, and other counter-culture activities. Unwilling to serve the Fort Kent, Maine, Chamber of Commerce as a reporter for the St. John Valley Times, he disappeared west of the Mississippi River, turning up as a graduate student and teacher of freshman composition at South Dakota State University, as a grant-writer for the United Tribes of North Dakota, as a vagabond on the West Coast who paused a few weeks to pick cherries and train hops in Oregon's Willamette Valley, and as a busker in Denver's historic Larimer Square. Returning to Massachusetts after about seven years--the same time that the Prodigal Son returned to a fatted calf--Garvey landed north of Boston to resume busking in the coastal tourist towns of Newburyport and Salem while teaching as an adjunct instructor at most every college within a 90-minute drive. A year later, in 1983, he began writing guest columns for the Newburyport Daily News and the weekly Newburyport Current. In 1999 he joined King Richard's Renaissance Faire in Carver, Mass., where he has performed every fall as a strolling minstrel to this day. Last fall he also performed in Cry Innocent, a re-enactment of a witch trial in Salem. He still writes for the Daily News, and he has since included Lexington, Mass., to his busking circuit. He has compiled three books: Pay the Piper! A Street-Performer's Public Life in America's Privatized Times (2014), Keep Newburyport Weird: An Atlas of Downtown Rhyme and Surfside Reason (2018), and Once Upon an Attention Span: An All-Purpose Pub for the United States of Amnesia (2024).

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2 thoughts on “A Modest Request”

  1. It was great to see you yesterday at the Refuge. Hellcat Boardwalk Trail is a special place on the Refuge. I do understand what you are saying about noise. I enjoy hearing the birds that are enjoying the early spring. It is always good to talk with you!

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