Sharon's blog: Through the park

Posted on Feb 10, 2012 3:23 AM

I decided to walk to the grocery one day this week. I only needed romaine lettuce and the grocery is only 3 blocks from my house. Two long blocks and one short one. It was a great afternoon for a walk. I dug through a bit of shoe debris and found my good walking shoes, untouched since roaming around last summer. One does not roam around usually in Kentucky winters, though this year I could have a time or two. Anyway, I tied my shoes, grabbed two fives and my iPhone, and away I went.

I got to the end of the first block, the short one, and there was the entrance to our little city park. It's lovely in summer, all natural with a stream running through this eastern edge of it. The sun was shining and the children were all in school; I would have the park all to myself. I could almost see the main street a mile away at the other end of the walking trail. It was so clear.

It was much longer to walk through the park than to walk the three blocks.

Those voices in my head again:

"I'll walk through the park to the grocery."

"It's a little more than a mile."

"I can walk a mile, no problem."

"Oh but . . . can you walk another mile back?"

"Dare me."

"You haven't walked all winter."

"But I'm never still, I move all the time."

"Remember your age."

"Oh good grief. I've walked it before and lettuce weighs nothing. I'm walking through the park and that's that."

I'm so glad I won that argument!

I chose to walk through the park. It was a most gorgeously beautiful day and the first time in years that I'd taken a spur of the moment walk. The park's full of old trees, the kinds that seem to have a story to tell. It was built in what used to be an old overgrown field where mice and rabbits played among the roots and squirrels and birds danced overhead flitting from limb to limb. Now it's frequented by walkers and soccer teams and concerts on special occasions. I think the rabbits and mice and squirrels moved to my back yard. But the birds still reside in the park.

The roots and nooks and crannies of full grown trees in winter give them personality, much like a bunch of little old ladies standing around gossiping in their every day dresses and aprons with pockets, waiting for spring when they can dress again in their green finery. I especially love the oaks, they remind me of an essay by D. Everett in The Columbian Orator, 1797: "Large streams from little fountains flow. Tall oaks from little acorns grow."

There are walking bridges across the stream, and foot traffic combines with a bit of vehicle traffic near the parking lot. When I get here, I know I've walked about a mile.

It's a memorial park, and in memory of those who contributed much to the growth of this tiny town, benches and lovely seating areas have been placed in their honor. These pictures are not the very best but my camera didn't take the walk with me, only my phone. I hadn't planned to walk through the park anyway. Thankfully, the old lady who lives inside me, grumbling at every move I make, never said a word once I started my walk. She groaned a little when we got to the hill that led out of the park and on to the grocery. She might have been a little tired; it's been a long time since we climbed mountains. In the grocery I found my romaine lettuce then made my way downhill and back to the park.

The sun was in my eyes on the homeward trip, making the stream shine like a silver ribbon at Christmas. But across the foot bridge and on to the walking path again, I ran into my favorites, a little cluster of river birch, marking another seating area. Beautiful texture in the late afternoon sunlight.

Roots like old gnarly arms reached downhill for the stream and the sycamores reached their white naked arms for the sunny skies above them. I noticed the oaks still haven't shed their leaves of last summer.

I'm not sure why I was so fascinated with roots that day, but my eyes were drawn to their shapes, the curve of their lines, the crevices they created. The moss and lichens were interesting too; I don't always spend much time looking at them, I'm usually engrossed in blooms. But the sun was in my eyes and I was looking down. Finally I found them, tiny flowers smaller than my smallest fingernail and ranging from white to lavender to sky blue. I'm not sure what they are but looking at them and their green foliage seems familiar. At first they reminded me of blue eyed grass in bloom, but looking closely I see they aren't. Still there's something about them, something from my past. A shadowed memory.

Across the stream there are daffs blooming. I wonder if someone tossed them there, they seem too random to have been planted.

I'm at the end of the walking trail now; my house is just around the next corner.

It's interesting that the first thing I see in my yard is a bright yellow dandelion glowing in the western sun. For once in my life I just laugh at it. Let it bloom, it's just about the only thing around here that's showing color!

The yellow maple in the front yard is full of buds, a good sign of things to come. The bunnies stay in their little spot in my yard year round, watching over things, guarding the vinca and yucca they hide in, knowing full well that vinca will be gone in a few weeks. I only keep it around in winter because I need to see green occasionally.

Around the corner of that same brick arch where the bunnies sit guard, the vinca is blooming. It's been blooming since the first of February, a little early even for Kentucky. That's another reason I keep the vinca around during winter, it's always my earliest bloom.

"You're wrong. You know the dandelions have been in bloom for weeks now."

"Dandelions don't count."

"They do count. They're plants, too, even better, they're edible. They have a purpose a lot more important than vinca. Why I remember a time when they was the first greens of spring and I picked me a mess of them greens and heated up a little bacon grease and . . ."

"Don't start. I've already heard that story and I don't want to hear it again."

"'Twarnt a story, little 'un. It's just the way we lived back then. Remember?"

"I reckon I'll always remember. You're still rumbling around in my head, Aunt Bett, how could I ever forget? Now would you please tell me what that little tiny blue flower is?"

Stubborn little woman Aunt Bett was. Still is. Once she taught me about a plant she expected me to remember it forever. I just can't for the life of me remember the name of that little blue flower.

"Chickweed, maybe?"

I'm not sure if that was her voice or my own.

Life sometimes is confusing.

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