It was a gorgeous afternoon -- sunny, Sonoran Desert-dry, and 87 degrees -- and after we went to the nursing home to see our mom, as we do twice a day, we drove over to Prospector Park near our house in A.J. to walk around and re-read Lolita, which we're teaching next week.
Prospector Park is our favorite local park, where we often used to bring our dogs to roam around in the early mornings.
We got there with our trusty 1995 Geo Prizm, which we bought in Mesa exactly ten years ago, in the spring of 2001, when our previous car wouldn't start half the times we tried to get to our 7:40 a.m. Monday/Wednesday/Friday class at Arizona State or our 7:30 a.m. Tuesday/Thursday class at Mesa Community College.
It was a short and pleasant drive
up Idaho Road.
At the intersection of Lost Dutchman Road, though, we momentarily felt envious of those with another mode of transport.
Prospector Park (not to be confused with Brooklyn's Prospect Park!)
is named for the old prospector of the Lost Dutchman's Mine
and Superstition Mountain, which looms majestically over all of us here every day.
At the ball fields, only three people were playing. So it isn't the Cactus League, but they were having fun.
A hit! Or maybe a foul tip! The kid actually was pretty good.
We politely declined an invitation to serve as catcher in this game and moved on to the opposite ballfield. No animals are allowed on the field, but the sign didn't say "No Nabokov"
so we climbed onto the bleachers and sat for awhile enjoying Humbert Humbert's wholesome adventures. It was a nice reading spot.
Nabokov once said, "I am as American as April in Arizona." Even in March, we know where he was coming from.
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