If I were Groucho Marx or Yogi Berra, I would say that I
have been walking ever since I learned how. What I really mean is I have been
using walking as more than a means of locomotion since I learned how. Over my
lifetime, I have walked to explore, to relieve boredom, and to relieve tension,
as well as to get places.
Until I was about ten years old, my paternal grandmother
lived in Fernwood, Mississippi, a very rural settlement outside of McComb. My
father worked shift work, and on his monthly long weekends, we would drive the
two hours from Baton Rouge to visit Mama Prescott in Fernwood. My two siblings
and I would explore the pasture and woods around the house on these visits. As
young kids, we knew we had had a good day exploring when red clay obscured the
drain in the bath tub at bath time.
I particularly remember going back to the tree that blew
down in one of the hurricanes—Hilda or Betsy. That place was a favorite of ours
because we wee ones could crawl all over it. As many times as we walked back
there, the experience was always new and exciting. On one rare cold morning,
Daddy took us three young’uns out to crawl on the tree. Daddy sat and shivered
while we swarmed all over the tree, as if we were wind-up toys. Later, I
realized that Daddy faced the cold weather to get us three energetic kids out
of the house so we could burn off some energy.
After Mama Prescott moved from Fernwood to Lexie, a little
less rural town, I began walking to ease boredom. We still had woods to
explore, but I mainly walked down the different roads in the area, just for the
fun of it. One day, I decided to gather litter and armed myself with a paper
bag. There was much more litter than I expected and I quickly filled the bag. I
stopped at a house to see if I could leave the full bag and maybe get an empty
one. The people were so impressed with my project that they fed me cake.
Once I reached adolescence, I found walking in general as
a means of dealing with life. I remember walking in the rain in my pepster
poncho to sort out girlfriend problems or boyfriend problems or simply to
contemplate the meaning of life. Our neighborhood was very walkable with long
streets and sidewalks. Rarely did I see anything new or scandalous as I walked
and thought.
When
I was in graduate school in Southern Illinois, I walked the fifteen minutes to
campus rather than hassle with a parking sticker and parking problems. In the
time it took to drive to campus, park, and walk to my classroom building, I
could have walked, anyway. Those were enjoyable walks. I had a variety of
routes to keep the walk interesting, with a lot of people watching and dog
watching and traffic watching to do on the way. Unlike South Louisiana, Southern
Illinois has four seasons, quite a revelation to me at the time. One fall, as I
walked and watched the leaves change color and drift from the branches, I
composed a poem: Nude to scrutiny/ Tattered remnants cling/ To cracked limbs.
The poem has a good beat and is walkable.
As an adult, I walked to explore and to ease boredom, but
I also began walking when I was upset. To this day, when dealing with
distressing news or situations, I pace. People know when I pace to stay out of
my path. One day, after watching me pace during a particularly distressing
phone call, my husband hid like a scolded puppy.
One summer, I realized that I needed to lose some weight
or buy bigger clothes. Instead of buying bigger clothes, I decided to buy a
pair of walking shoes—an inexpensive and fun solution to that problem.
For much of my adult life, I lived with basset hounds.
Those of you who live with dogs know the walking routine. One of my bassets was
so glad to go out for his walk that when we left the yard, we looked like cartoon
characters with me flying from his leash behind him. The neighbors were amused.
During one annual physical, my physician asked what I did for exercise. I
replied that I walked my dogs. The physician was satisfied with that response.
In South Carolina, I live on Folly Beach. Folly Beach is
so small that to go to the post office or library or a restaurant in town, it
is shorter to walk than to try to drive and park. In Upstate New York, our home
is in a very isolated, rural area. The roads are narrow, hilly, curvy, and in
bad repair, not particularly safe for walking. Plus, bears have been spotted in
our area, and I am pretty sure that they are not the tame bears of the tale of
Goldilocks. To take a walk, we have to get in the car and drive somewhere, which
takes some planning. Spontaneous walks almost never happen. In the summer when
I am in New York, I miss the ability to walk freely whenever the spirit moves
me.
I thought a deity of walking might exist whom I could
invoke to facilitate my walks in Upstate New York. A Google search of “god of
walking” yielded references to Bible verses about walking. A Google search of
“deity of walking” produced references to deities of travel. The Norse pagan
god, Meili, a.k.a. “the lovely one,” is portrayed wearing a traveler’s coat and
carrying a walking stick. When I want to take a walk in Upstate New York, I
will have to be content entreating Meili for happy walking.
LAGNIAPPE: See “Be-Worded”
for musings, “Taking a
Walk.”
Me after a walk--really a hike, but it is a good picture for this blog post. Maybe the difference between a walk and a hike is fodder for another blog!
