ROADS
Where you go my love goes, darling
I can hear the unknown road calling
- Palomino, by First Aid Kit
Most mornings, I put my toddler, Ocean, into the jogging stroller and take him for a walk or run. Normally a bundle of rambunctious energy, on our walks Ocean enjoys just looking around and taking in the morning air, often with one foot popped up on the front railing. He’s so at ease that one time a woman walking her dog smiled at Ocean and commented, “Your baby is very relaxed.”
We usually walk about two miles, looping up and down the hilly roads. I have several routes I like to take, each with distinguishing landmarks. In one direction, we pass the home I call the Pink Palace. Set on a regular lot amidst a street of unassuming homes, it is four stories tall with a few subtle parapets and mini turrets. A pair of gargoyles adorn the stone wall leading through the manicured hedges to the entrance. The whole place is painted a muted dusty rose pink. How I’d love to know the story of this home and who lives there. It tickles me to walk past it and imagine what it may look like inside. Crown moulding, heavy drapes, velvet settees, perhaps a chandelier? Or what if the interior was a complete surprise: a Western theme, or tropical, or filled with assembled furniture from Ikea? It remains a delicious mystery, intriguing me each time I stroll past.
Past the Pink Palace is a steep hill whose reward for reaching the summit is a view of the lake. One morning, I saw a motor-powered paraglider gliding high over the water, eventually making large spirals to lower himself to earth and land on the grassy bank. Another morning I went down the hill towards the lake and back up another street, not realizing how sharp the incline was until I had made it about half way. The final stretch was so brutal, I fantasied about a chivalrous man coming to my aid and pushing the stroller up the rest of the hill with about half the energy I was exerting. Panting at the top, I made a mental note for next time: take the long way back around towards home.
Another loop I take goes past a burned-down house. It was a shock the first time I came across it. I had meandered onto a road where the homes were especially neat and cared for, when right in the middle was a house fire’s charred remains. The structure was covered in black soot and the roof had caved in, leaving the inside unrecognizable. Just a mess of ashy detritus from what once was someone’s home. For severals weeks we’d occasionally pass the site while I again wondered about the story of this place and how long it would be there, standing out like a rotten tooth. One day, the property was fenced off and a dumpster had appeared. The next week a crew was there with a bulldozer, removing the debris. The time after that, it was completely razed. Not even the foundation of the home remained. A mound of fresh-packed dirt and gravel covered the place it had stood, ready for a fresh start. With the home gone I could see the view of rolling hills which peeked through the trees. If possible, it would be opportunistic to rebuild with two stories so as to take advantage of the view. From the second floor of our home, I love to linger in the wide hallway which looks over the treetops and neighboring golf course to the blue hills beyond.
One Wednesdays, we try to catch a sight of the passing trash truck, since Ocean is becoming interested in vehicles. The utility workers often honk and wave as I point out the rumbling truck to Ocean, who gives a studious expression of non-committal even though I can see his curiosity by the way his eyes follow with full interest.
Many times on our walks, we’ll chat with “Marilyn”, a great-grandmother who walks her dog around the neighborhood. Though she has yet to ask me any personal questions, I’ve learned from her quick banter many facts about her full life. The first time we met (when she proceeded to take a short cut through our yard) I worried she might be a local busy-body, though I’ve since come to enjoy hearing about her time as a flight instructor, her husband’s collection of suits from his traveling days, and about the flowering mint she plans to replace with what her yard lost in the summer heat. She is eager to talk, so when I see her I wave and slow down for a rapid burst of conversation before we part ways.
The walks hold many little landmarks and events. Small things add up and are a boon I don’t want to forget. In my mind, I write about them. I narrate seeing a crow which dwarfed the songbird on the roof next to it, and how the crow seemed to follow us to the next block, appearing on a second roof and then a telephone pole, his cries of “Caw, caw, caw!” echoing like a warning from a fairytale. Or of the time I saw a man on a huge riding lawn mower cutting the grass on the golf course, then saw a man with a tiny push mower trimming his mini yard. I caught what appeared to be a longing glance from the man in his yard towards the riding mower, and in that moment it struck me like a scene: a child with a toy mower looking at his dad and dreaming of the day when that would be him.
On balmy evenings, we’ll go for a walk as a family: Andy, Ocean, and I. Conversations with Andy are what delight me most about these family walks (including shared observations which usually crack each other up). Now that Ocean can walk as well, we’ll slip velcro shoes on his feet and let him toddle around. He’ll hold our hands and stop to crouch down and play in the dirt. On these walks my heart is full; our family unit is out together enjoying the simple things.
I collect these colorful moments: the pink house, the black crow, the blue water of the lake. They’re small and sweet and are a ritual for slowing down. One day we may look back and recall, “Remember when we took a walk on the golf course because it was the only place with sidewalks, and some golfers told us we weren’t allowed? Remember how it was on our walks when Ocean really noticed the deer for the first time, turning his head to look? Remember how he would fall asleep in the carrier sometimes, wearing his Little Rookie baseball cap? We can track how much he’s grown just by our walks: from carrier and stroller to walking on his own. What a gift.”
