Victoria Manalo Draves Park
July 16, 2026
I arrived from Folsom Ave, and entered the Victoria Manalo Draves Park through a small playground. There was a sign on the fence announcing an upcoming outdoor gym renovation. On a little raised grassy circlet, a few people were lying in mottled shade cast by tall trees around the park perimeter. The playground and exercise equipment seemed to be getting great use.
Ginkgo leaves that had turned bright yellow were glowing, backlit by the afternoon sun, and shedding golden flakes across the ground. When the light wind came through, many stayed put, but some skittered across the path in front of me.
On my way out, I met a Doberman. Maybe he could tell it was my first time there, or maybe he was just one of the brusque macho types. I usually love dogs. As a kid, I worked for years earning “stars” by completing math books and other assignments, with the promise that my parents would someday reward me with a puppy. There is one type of dog, however, that I do not care for. Dobermans.
My grandmother Mimi was about five feet tall, wore six-inch heels (even to walk the dog at six-o-clock in the morning), bright blue eyeshadow, and long red painted nails filed to a point. I thought she was an absolute spitfire. Unlike me, she loved Dobermans and had a series of them: Jumanji, Sirius, Bismarck, Noble, and Saber, among others whose names I can’t remember.
One night, my parents and grandparents went out to dinner and left my sister and me alone in an octagonally shaped room at my grandparents’ house, with a little TV and doors on three sides. We were watching a show, but about fifteen minutes after everyone left, I realized I had to pee. When I stood up from the couch, I heard a low, guttural growl. I sat back down. The growling stopped. I stood up. It started again. So I held it.
This one in the park had cropped ears and a short tail, like Mimi’s dogs. I quickly learned that her name was Pretty, which I appreciated to be both true and silly. I stood very still and held my breath until the pretty girl got tired of me and sauntered off. I decided to cut my visit a little short. I took long, quick steps toward the exit while the dog watched me go. Independent of the encounter, I was in a rush. I was on my way to meet Nick for dinner to celebrate the eight year anniversary of the night we met.
Before the park, I had been at the American Messenger Gallery, and lingered a little too long. There, I saw a compelling pop-up group show. I had met a few artists, which I was very happy about, and admired some local art while surrounded by lively conversation made loose by sweet wine, and free hot dogs. It was fun. I was glad I went.
A couple of the artists seemed well known locally. Many had written about someone named Tomasina DeMaio in their bios, a local artist who was also a teacher and someone who had been impactful to them in founding Art Saves Lives. Mental note to look into them more.
