Two journeys across the street to the park today, once with the little boys, Joseph trudging along because he declares it’s easier to walk than to ride his bike (and at the pace he pedals that thing – he’s right. I don’t think we’ll ever get him going fast enough to balance without the training wheels), and Michael in the stroller, yelling joyously at every "Goggie" who appears and lifting an arm in a cheerful "Hi!" at every human.

Because Flannery regularly reassures me that "the writer should never be ashamed of staring," I did my usual quota, while the three of us shared a paleta (Mamey-flavored, rather orangish, very good) we bought from a fellow pushing a cart with, much to Joseph’s fascination, bells attached.

(An aside. Electronics are one thing, but what can replace the thrill of a real bell, large or small? Joseph was indeed fascinated by the row of bells on the fellow’s cart, as fascinated as he is, if we get to St. Peter’s early enough, by the man there pulling on the bell rope hanging from the hole in the ceiling of  the vestibule. At least once, the man allowed Joseph to "help" him, as helpful as a little boy gingerly brushing a rough rope can be.)

The Paleteria on wheels is a smart move, since Foster Park resounds with Spanish on the weekends. It is such a cross-section, as it always is, sometimes a formal gathering (a church picnic sometimes, either Catholic or Pentecostal – today, there seemed to be some sort of immigration information session going on. They were taking the banner down as I got there, and I couldn’t read it), and sometimes just people hanging out. When the children speak English to each other it is only lightly accented, but most of the time they, like their elders, speak Spanish.

But even then..

Two teen girls sit at a picnic table, drinking orange drinks, speaking rapid fire, the way that teen girls do, all in Spanish except for the occasional phrase – in this conversation, "My Space" and "internet" – several times.

Parents of two little children were trying to negotiate the sharing of a Gatorade. The little girl had possession of the bottle, and they were trying to get her to share it with Arturo. She wouldn’t. They all spoke in Spanish, of course, except when the little girl clutched the Gatorade bottle firmly to her little self and yelled, "MINE!"

What most interested me on this first visit, though, was a sight that crossed any and all cultures. A band of children, surrounding one little girl, who was, in the tradition of all children everywhere, "cooking." In this case, she was carefully piling sand on a surface, preparing a cake. She was of a type, again, that crosses cultures – the reed of a girl with steely eyes who is in charge and will be obeyed. Her acolytes did her bidding, getting small sticks for candles, and chocolate that was, of course, more sand. It wasn’t even wet sand that could be shaped. It was dry sand in a heap. But the children were still fascinated and almost fought with each other to help her, approaching and petitioning, "Can I play?"

(And why was I there? Because Michael, typically, had weasled his way into the front of the crowd and stood there, clutching pieces of mulch that he held out for the cake – vainly, because he was probably too little to be seen.)

In this era of flashing lights and frantic, addictive video games and plugged in entertainments – how fascinating that a pile of sand can still draw a crowd.

Later, I returned on my walk, and the aura had shifted a bit. The Burmese community had arrived on their end – a couple of hundred who also come on the weekends to the park. They were playing volleyball and badmitton, the women mostly in long skirts and t-shirts, the slight, worried-looking men, squatting, always squatting as they converse in their small groups.

(Fort Wayne has a sizeable Burmese community in exile – they say around 3,000- and regularly hosts gatherings such as the one last week, which remebered the anniversary of the movement for democracy in Burma)

The Hispanics are still there, but it is no longer families  – it is the young men and some young women, who park their cars along the drive entering into the park, standing around, talking, playing their music on their car radios. Eyeing each other.

I passed the no-man’s land in between them at the same time as four Hispanic teens – 2 girls and 2 boys. As I drew up alongside them, one of the girls whipped around and eyed the Burmese on the volleyball court.

"Why’d he do that? He can’t do that – he called me a ‘ho."

One of the boys tried to calm her down, "No he didn’t."

"He did."

"Well, he didn’t mean to – I mean, he doesn’t know you, he don’t know anything about you."

She tossed her head, "Well, you know what I say," and she affected a mock high-pitched Asian accent, "Ling – ling – ling – ling"

The other girl giggled and offered her own version of the same, a sneering, nasally imitation of some Asian language of her own creation, and by that time, my stride took me past them.

I wonder sometimes if peace will reign down there.  I hope it can –  I hope and pray that it does.

Fort Wayne – not just for Lutherans any more!