Walk

The houses where I walk are built up on a hill that starts out steep, so that, as I head down the sidewalk, the front lawns perch at shoulder height.  Roots of young trees tentatively grasp the soil; while ancient oaks plunge thick arms deep into the earth, tree and soil inextricably linked.

As I walk towards the railroad tracks, the hill grows less steep.  Hip-level, there’s a bed made of old railroad ties.  Phlox, purple and pink, cascade over the tie, spilling towards the sidewalk like bright frosting dripping down the side of a cake that you swipe up with the back of your index finger when the kids aren’t watching and scoop into your mouth because everybody knows that frosting served without cake doesn’t count.  Tucked among the rocks are small patches of white phlox and pachysandra, delicate purple flowers among shiny waxen leaves.

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Day after Christmas

At this hour of the morning, the park is mainly empty except for die-hard joggers in spandex and power walkers out with their dogs.  There is evidence of recent Christmas gifts: a man and his son in matching camouflage outfits; another man with a new camera strapped about his neck; on the path a pretzel bag jammed with napkins and a plastic candy cane that formerly held Hersey kisses wrapped in red and green foil; a man with inline skates and ski poles.

At the highest point in the park, sixty-foot trees reach gloveless fingers into the sky and try to snag billowing clouds as they bluster past.  But clouds cannot be held back by the trees.

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Fall's Promise

There’s a field of soybeans in the middle of the park where we walk.  The plants are yellowed and brown, with the seeds still attached.  In the middle of the field, there’s a patch of bright green grass where the soybeans refused to take hold.  The wind whips up and rustles the plants and their dried bones rattle in response.  Along the perimeter of the field, the wild plants are allowed to grow: goldenrod and pokeberry, its fruit bright purple and black.  I see white snakeroot and dense blazing star and green foxtail.

Tiny snakes cross our path; winding their bodies this way and that across the asphalt path, while wooly bears cross in a slower, steadier march.  A monarch butterfly rests upon a sprig of heath aster.  A white moth flits here then there, pausing only an instant at a plant before continuing on its way.

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Fragile

“Do you want some chicken feet for the dog?”  The owner of the farm where we’d rented our cabin nodded at Destructo.  “We’re slaughtering Thursday.” 

“Do you do the butchering yourself?”

He gave a satisfied nod.  “We used to pluck by hand until we were able to make a plucker.” 

Although the farm was hundreds of miles from home, we found we shared a connection: The owner sold wool to a highbrow place near our home; a sterile place whose shoppers, I was sure, wouldn’t give a moment’s thought to the farm and the people and the animals that had produced that wool.  Thus connected, we were invited to gather the eggs from the chickens just outside our cabin; to visit the turkeys and the pigs and the sheep.  We could pet the goats and the horses used to plow the fields.  We were free to milk the cow, provided we got up early enough.  And, of course, the hundred acres were ours to explore.

And we explored with abandon: We passed a hundred-year-old farmhouse and went on to the pigpen where baby durocs no bigger than our—admittedly fat—cat ran round the pen en masse while their mother looked on wearily.  A pasture down, there was another pig, sequestered from a lamb and a couple of horses by a wire fence.  Drying on a wooden fencepost was the horned scalp of a goat.  Here and there, where the rocks would allow, were patches of garden: Scallions and tomatoes and lettuces to the right; Further down the path a bed of peas and green beans, still in season in August.

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Simple Treasures

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We lived at the top of a small hill in our second house, the first house I can remember without benefit of photographs.   Our drive was concrete—perfect for hopscotch and biking and jumping rope—and sloped down over a ditch that occasionally filled with rainwater and snowmelt.  A galvanized steel pipe ran beneath the drive and drained into that ditch.  And when it wasn’t too wet, that pipe was the perfect place to hide treasures.  My sisters and I could lie on our sides and stretch an arm about a foot in and our treasures—generally the few Matchbox cars we owned—would be safe.  Eventually we moved, leaving behind forgotten treasures.  I’ve often wondered what I would find there, were I to go back. 

Growing up, I remember a bank that belonged to my mother.  It was an iron treasure chest—brown—with an image of a pirate on one side and a skull and cross bones on the other and a slot in the lid for coins.  The chest was hinged and I loved to fold back the curved lid to run my fingers through the pennies contained within, pretending that it was real treasure; real gold.

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Beauty or the Beast?

Well, it’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m at yet another baseball practice one hour before yet another baseball game.  And I have to say, I’m cranky: The shower drain suddenly decided to block itself up this morning.  Houses have a funny way of making up projects when it thinks things are running too smoothly for you.  So, here I am, parked in a folding chair for the next three hours, Destructo at my side, my husband chauffeuring V and Filibuster to work and yet more aptitude tests before meeting me here, hopefully with a large coffee from Starbucks.  After the game, there will be the obligatory team photos, and this makes me even grumpier.

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I despise pictures.  If someone brings out a camera at a family event, I’ll turn my head so as not to be captured on film.  If there’s some obligatory family photo, where we all have to line up by generation and height, I’ll duck behind someone tall at the last minute so that, when the picture is printed there’s an empty spot where I ought to be.

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After the Storm

It’s not yet May and already some of my dandelions have gone to seed.  Maple trees are sprouting in my perennial bed.  Uncertainty hangs thick in the air as we wait for the predicted thunderstorm.  I cut away a handful of lilacs and dogwood blossoms before the wind can snatch them away and dash them to the sidewalk.  I want to preserve the spring; to hold onto the scent of lilacs through an open window. 

The storm comes and goes in a rush and my lilacs have survived and I have just enough time for a walk before dark.

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