I thought I’d try another way, this time turning left at the bottom of Blake Garden.

My cunning mind pieced together the landscape and I visualized walking along the flat, as the hill above sloped down and I would meet it at Sunset Blvd., climbing back up to Arlington Ave. close to Raxakoul, my destination.

I had seen, in the case at Raxakoul, pork sandwiches for sale. I couldn’t see past the edges to determine how much meat they contained. But right next to them was a little round shepherd’s pie, labelled “with lamb.” I wanted to try it.

Research (in this case, just asking the cashier) determined that the sandwiches were $10, the shepherd pie, $7.00.

But, as I was walking along the level street below Blake Garden, I stopped to “catch my breath,” and sat on a little low wall.

I know I know I know I need to exercise. I know my inherent laziness, which I’ve practiced to a fine art, has come to roost at the ripe age of 84, and I must must must “change my ways.”

Easier said than done.

So I sat on the little wall, rested my wearies, and heard a sound like a flute coming from the left.

Maybe someone driving with the window open, the radio playing? No. There was no traffic at all.

Then I saw him, on the other side of the street, coming my way. He was playing some kind of shiny flute thing, blowing into the end, and emitting clear notes in a comfortable pattern.

I watched him approach, and then he was right across from me.

I need more interactions with people. I often initiate them with “Hello.” Usually often they continue the conversation because people need or like to talk, like me.

So I began with, “Thank you for filling the neighborhood air with music.”

I think he said, “That’s what I do.”

A promising beginning. So I added, if memory serves, “Reminds me of the days with our renaissance consort where we all learned to play the recorder, though not as beautifully as you.”

That hooked him. He crossed the street to hear better, stood in front of me, then sat down on the little wall to my left, and we continued talking.

I was searching for parallel images. Since we’re approaching the 250th Anniversary of the Nation, I thought of the iconic picture of the marching minions leading the Revolution and waving the flag, but the focus was on the cross ways flute, which was the wrong image, so I didn’t mention it.

Nor did I mention the Pied Piper of Hamelin, usually shown playing the pipe at the appropriate angle, but leading a parade of rats out of town, and I felt this was disrespectful to Kensington where I haven’t seen a single rat.

But we did talk music. My interlocutor was alert, responsive, friendly. I tend to overdo my part in a conversation, because apparently I have so much to say, and so little time left to say it, and I’m sure he hasn’t been reading my blog, so I felt free to repeat some of the entries.

I was leading to a zinger of mine of which I am justly proud.

Speaking of pianists, years ago a good friend of mine, a pianist who accompanied me on German Lieder, compared Rubinstein and Horowitz.

I love Rubinstein for his love of music and love of life. His hands reach into the heart of the music, caress it, bring it forth. He doesn’t show off, he lets the music speak. His joy of life makes me envision him at a table with friends and glorious food, a glass of beer in one hand, a cigar in the other, as he tells a joke and everyone laughs together.

Horowitz is from the Russian school of speed and accuracy, the fastest virtuoso. But he was agoraphobic, felt uneasy around people, avoided crowds, performed in public infrequently, and made studio recordings. He was known for his performance of the Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 3, so difficult that some pianists called it unplayable.

The Horowitz recording became the standard, accurate and unbelievably virtuosically fast.

My flute-playing new friend sitting beside me on the wall, referenced Horowitz’s discomfort in playing in public to crowds, and the speed of his playing, and interjected, “To get it over quicker.”

I laughed out loud and told him I might quote him in my blog (which I just did).

I finished the point of my story, how my earlier judgmental friend had uttered the comment: “Rubinstein has no technique! Horowitz, now, that’s piano playing!” at which point I uttered those immortal words, “Horowitz plays the notes. Rubinstein plays the music.”

A bit unfair to Horowitz, but to Rubinstein, spot on.

As we were talking, a young woman or girl, I never know how to refer to them anymore, maybe high school or college age, carrying a backpack, was walking down the street from the opposite direction, paused to hear our conversation, crossed over and sat down in the street at the edge just to my right.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “if there are any cars, they won’t run over me. This is Kensington.”

Thus began a three-way conversation among new friends, the sort of thing that can happen anywhere, and does, just not often enough.

The current state of the world came up and we ventured into politics. Of course I referenced my early days when we were taught, “The two things one must never discuss in public are politics and religion.” When we asked, “What can we talk about?” the answer was, “The weather.” I added that nowadays even the weather is a result of politics, and the girl sitting at my feet in the street said, “My Granny would love you! She stays up late every night complaining about politics and the government.” I said, “I’ve never met your Granny, but I love her already.”

I gestured expansively to my two new friends and gushed, as I tend to do, “I’d like sometime to invite you both to lunch, so we can continue our discussion.”

The girl said, “I can’t. My Granny would have to talk to you first.”

“Quite right,” I said, and my phone rang.

It was Kristina, noting the time, and checking if I wanted to be picked up instead of the long walk home uphill.

Thus began a four-way conversation. “My Daughter, Kristina,” I said, gesturing at the phone.

“Gary,” I said, pointing at my chest.

“Frank,” said the flute player.

“Like your Father’s name,” said Kristina on the phone.

“Isis,” said the girl, and Kristina loved the name.

The party was making movements to break up as Kristina said Chaz was coming to pick me up. I referenced my blog again, and gave my card to Frank and Isis, who promised to take a look.

I put my phone away. Frank and Isis continued talking as they walked together up the street.

I thought, how easy it is in the confluence of events to begin a conversation with strangers that become friends. If the people in the world would talk to each other, we would not be in the sorry state of affairs we currently experience.

So I packed up, walked a little farther down the street, and stopped to greet an old derelict-looking man sitting on the fold-down back of his truck in front of a derelict-looking house.

He lives alone, asked what I did for a living, I told him, teacher for forty years, he said submissively, “I worked with my hands,” still owns a machine shop, big place, can’t get there much anymore, bad knees, putting off the surgery, afraid of the cost. So we talked operations, my hip replacement. He looked to be in as bad a shape as I was before my surgery, and then Chaz drove up and waited patiently as I extended a goodbye to my new old friend I promised to greet if I came by this way again, very likely, and I slowly backed up still talking so as not to end the conversation abruptly. He looked like he didn’t have visitors or anyone to talk to, and I looked down the street, wondering about all the people who live in the houses.

Chaz drove me home and we talked about the way Sunset joins Arlington Ave. Kristina had supper ready, and we ate well, as always.

The next day, I made it down to Raxakoul’s, bought the shepherd’s pie, asked, “Is there any way you could heat it up?” “Of course, I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready. People like to sit in our little patio.”

So I took my Earl Grey iced tea with milk and sat where he directed me, in the little bit of shade, “So you won’t burn.”

I watched people come and go, pass by, some going into the store. Two young school boys, early grades, settled at a table in the sun, ate snacks, and started playing a card game .

They were both representative children of the privilege of middle class comfort, one more than the other, and I didn’t need to bring race into it though that was an obvious factor.

Then my shepherd’s pie was brought to me with a napkin and a fork. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

Not that hot, but warm enough, bigger than it looked, a little bland, lots of mashed potatoes over the filling of gravy, vegetables, and bits of meat identified as lamb. Comfortably filling.

I put my plastic cup, that had held the iced tea, onto the sunny part of the table so the ice would melt.

A youngish mature woman of indeterminate age, I can’t distinguish between 30 and 50, but I don’t need to, because people are people, sat at the table in the corner where the young boys had played.

Our eyes met, and she asked, “Do you know the best way to…” she gestured up the hill and mentioned a destination, probably a park or monument.

I replied, “I would tell you if I knew, but I’m new to the area and still finding my way around.”

The opening salvo began a conversation which ranged, as such things do, from the weather, unseasonably hot, the state of the world, advancing age. She said, “My kids are off at college.” I said, “I’m living with my Daughter and her Husband.”

“My name is Mia,” she said.

“Gary,” I answered.

As she was preparing to leave, I gestured expansively, “There are people everywhere…”

She finished the thought, “who are ready and willing to talk together like a community of friends,” and I gave her my card at her request, and Chaz came to pick me up and bring me home for dinner.

And why should I tell you all this, Dear Reader?

There are many reasons, as there always are, for everything, and we can pick and choose the ones most relevant.

I’m sharing my experiences, and you’re receiving them, or you wouldn’t be reading this.

“Hmm…I never knew that,” or “That happened to me…”

Everything written is the intent to communicate.

And these days, when fewer people read and communication is a “lost art,” it behooves those of us who see the light to shine it around so others can see it too.

Communication is civilization, people being people.

And it’s selfish, too. If by talking to people I help make the world that much better, then I make better that world wherein I myself live. I am by nature a giving and sharing person.

Wherever we live, civilization is just around the corner and down the street.

Even in the remotest rural of splendid isolation, solipsism is not complete.

Bad can always be better.

In those extreme cases where someone hates everything and everybody, even themselves, then we have something to talk about.

This is just an excerpt from the Catalog of Reasons.

Thus ends, for now, my story of Frank (whose name I remember because it was my Father’s name) & Isis (that Egyptian goddess named so we won’t forget) & Mia (memories after Mia Slavenska from Shirley’s ballet past).

So…until next time…