Photo: John and Suzanne’s Mom.
The ice breaks up.
When I was paying for my groceries on Tuesday, the teenage bagger commented on what a beautiful day it was, and I said, “Yes, I can’t wait to get home and take my walk.” He replied, “Where do you walk?”
At the moment of telling him my usual route, I knew I couldn’t possibly follow routine on that unusually warm, sunny, and springlike day in February.
So after I got all the perishables into my fridge, I walked in the opposite direction from the routine and ended up on a conservation trail in the woods.
There was something about this that was a throwback to childhood, when I walked with a friend in the woods or with my cousin Patsy or, most often, alone. I used to feel spring coming. The woods held magic. There was a stream with a brownish rock in the middle that I liked to inaugurate in spring by stepping on it, but sometimes I would slip into the icy water and walk home wearing mittens on my feet.
It used to feel great to have an adventure alone, maybe a little bit risky. Like the time I wandered from the woods to look for the place where one could sometimes see a horse behind a stockade fence. On the way there, I would go through a marsh, stepping slowly from wobbly tuft to wobbly tuft. Until one day, I saw an unknown man standing not far off and I hightailed it out of there.
Exploring on Tuesday also felt a bit risky, even with a smart phone. How many bars do I need if I fall and want to summon help? What about the icy, sloshy places? I’m a bit old for walking home with mittens on my feet and drenched shoes hung over my shoulder, the laces tied together.
I also needed to pay attention to where I was in relation to the road. I was kind of lost, although the trail markers were reassuring.
Eventually, I came out onto a big field where a woman was walking her dog, and I had a pretty good idea where the road lay in relation to that field.
I went home and took a nap.
Suzanne's Mom's Blog 