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Walk This Way

August 13th, 2010

The heat wave continues. I’m a whimp, I freely admit- I don’t like extreme temperatures, either hot or cold. So when the temps rise into the nineties and the humidity is so high that the dew doesn’t evaporate off the grass until afternoon, I tend to become a recluse in the coolness of the house. Because the A/C in my car ceased to function years ago, I tend not to go places on days like this, re-enforcing my hermit status. It’s really not so bad, I’m pretty much a homebody anyway. I have my critters and the radio and computer to keep me company, and my art to keep me busy. When the walls get too much for me, I slip outside to pick a tomato or two, and check the chicken house for eggs.

But one thing I miss that the heat has kept me from are the once daily walks with the dogs down to the pond. There’s a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter called “Twight” that describes our little walk to a T. I once heard her on NPR talking about this song and felt like she was talking about the walk we go on, and even describing some of the paintings I’ve done of the path we take. Nice how something as simple as an evening walk in the country can be a connection between all kinds of people.

Our walk is best taken in the evening, when it’s a little cooler, and the sun sends shadows stretching across the hayfield. First we collect the dogs, who at the sight of the leashes transform from apathetic mounds of fur into leaping ecstasy. I feel my right arm grow two inches longer as Molly pulls hard and I stumble, laughing or cursing, trying to keep up with her. The dog trainer told us “just be a tree when they pull like that.” Ha, I’m a tree pulled up from my roots, leaving a trail of branches and leaves. Chickens, ducks and rabbits keep clear of our path, while the dogs follow whatever scent has caught their noses. Past the house, the chicken house, the barns, we stop at the openness of the hay field and let the dogs go. Two streaks, one black, one gold, and they’re lost in the tall grass.  This is our chance to catch our breath, to pause and drink in the distance, the perfume of the hay. There’s a golden light in the air, and the hills are layered in a purple haze.

The dogs chase each other, while overhead the barn swallows dip and dive, skimming along swifter and more daring than the Red Baron. In late summer the deep purple iron weed is blooming, along with the Queen Ann’s lace, and wild sunflowers. We talk about our day, our plans; calling to the dogs to keep them in view as we make our way down the mowed path towards the pond. We spy yellow butterflies, and black ones, and point at the blue heron high above us. Sometimes we startle a deer and see the flash of a white tail disappear into the shadows of the woods.

It feels cooler near the pond. We stand on the bank and look for the young bluegills and bass. The heads of snapping turtles surface, sentries keeping an eye on us. Dragonflies in different sizes and colors weave around us. Sometimes Rudi will wade into the water, swimming in circles with his thick tail floating behind him. Molly prefers a long drink and hunts for frogs which are too quick for her. Rudi glimpses a fish that has come too close and loses his nerve, coming out of the water to give us a shower as he shakes off. Leashes go back on now so the dogs won’t run out to the field to bother the neighbor’s horses. The edge is worn off their energy now, and they are content to hang out with us. Rounding the pond, we shield our eyes from the reflection of the setting sun, and stop to pick a few blackberries for the dogs to munch on. The berries are small and tart, and Rudi makes a face but goes back for more. We wave hello to the horses and tell them how great they look. Arty is a big black percheron who when he arrived was skin and bones, but with care and grain and lots of hay he’s looking good now.

We take the path up through the woods, and Eric points out where he saw the wild turkeys. Once we found a box turtle on the path which the dogs found very interesting. The feeling was not returned by the turtle, who withdrew into his shell. I love this spot with the tall old oak trees and moss, and may apples in the spring. I can imagine the fairies having parties around the tree stump, wearing their acorn caps. I hear the indignant squeak a chipmunk as we pass by his tree and Molly pricks her ears. The dogs pull hard going up the hill- they know bunnies often hang out on the path along here.

Then we’re back in the field, slivers of sunlight coming through the woods and the timbers of the old barn. The puddles Molly likes to drink from have long since dried up in the summer heat, leaving a powdery dust marked with little hand prints left by raccoons.  We pass two of our old barns; one houses my brother’s faded blue pick-up trucks- rusty with tires flat; the other barn tall and grey, draped in vines, and fragrant with rolls of hay inside. Into the farm yard, we wait for the ducks to go by, the lame peking dipping her head our way. The dogs reluctantly go back to their kennel, but perk up at the promise of their supper. We head inside- back to the A/C, to our own supper, back to mundane life and all that comes with it. But in my mind’s eye, I can slip back to that image of the sun gleaming off the wings of the blue heron, high above. I’ll hold on to that in my mind, like a child holds a sweet in her mouth, till it dissolves in time, and then it’s time for another walk.

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