...miles to go before...

In the midst of all the change brought about by the dual arrivals of a new baby and Covid-19, our daily walks have been the one remaining constant.  Just a mile of to-and-fro on our little curve of the road every day, no matter the weather, has kept us from going stir crazy.  In fact, back in March when we first entered lockdown, that mile was our only escape.  We'd walk it briskly. I, winded easily after pregnancy and childbirth, but determined to get back into "fighting shape", huffed and puffed as we headed back up the driveway.  In those early weeks, our little stretch of formerly deserted roadway became a high traffic area to neighbouring pedestrians.  We'd play a shell game of sorts...crossing the road first one way, then another, as we all tried to maintain 6+ feet of distance while holding our breaths.

As time went on, some of the newbies fell by the wayside, their sudden interest in all things healthy waning as the lockdown dragged on and Netflix rolled out new bingeworthy suggestions.  We found ourselves waving at the now-familiar faces on the other side of the road, carefully averting our faces and breaths as we tentatively shouted out "Good morning" or inquired about the lap-count.  They, in turn, would pause mid-stride and ask how the wee one was sleeping.

We learned more about our neighbors in those few seconds of discourse then we'd done in years of living side by side.  Social-distancing, it seemed, was but the impetus needed to connect us all. 

There was the former postal employee, barely slowing in her dogged steps as she paced out her miles, but still quick with a smile and wave.  Several overnight-joggers, complete with the best of Amazon Prime's athletic attire and the shin splints and side stitches to match.  They'd pause longer, grateful for the excuse to rest and stretch, trading a grimace for a plaster smile and hoping that the next lap would make triathletes of them all. Dog walkers and high-school athletes alike barely acknowledged their road-mates, both focused on things of importance such as run-times or waste-bags.

Time marched on, and so did we, as March ran out.  The walking continued. Having made it past that 6 week mark of postnatal healing, I invested in an Ergo carrier and ditched the stroller.  With the baby nestled in snugly, we'd trade the walls for wide open space twice a day and "walk him to sleep" as spring breezes rolled in.

That stretch of road became our whole world, it seemed.  Familiarity brought subtle changes to our attention, as new buds peeked out and little saplings reached for the sun. For the whole of summer, we made a case study of our new friend Gus, the random asparagus shoot of 2020 that curiously grew to over 6 feet tall in the middle of an infrequently tended yard.  Day after day we'd marvel over his seemingly exponential growth.  Photographic evidence was needed, of course, so I made my 6'5"son sub in as measuring stick!  In the passing of time, a few more aspara-guys (or perhaps aspara-girls) sprung out around our a-spiring hero, but they soon shriveled up in defeat.  A summer storm knocked poor Gus on his side, where he continued to spread until fall's first cold snap.  R.I.P.

Gus in his short-lived infancy

Whilst we observed with unbridled enthusiasm the life-span of various flora, the fauna of the wood-side watched with equal parts detached curiousity and nervous surveillance.  Bunnies that formerly vanished, in a poof of fluffy tail at first footfall. gradually settled into uneasy routine...feigning nonchalance as they assembled clover breakfasts, but unable to control their high-strung ears.  The resident squirrel army took note of the increased trespass and responded in kind, sending out "foot soldiers" on dizzying maneuvers clearly meant to trip us up.  But it was the deer who, in hopes of a future friendship feast no doubt, accepted us into the herd.  Within but a week of our daily walks, they'd found themselves a comfy patch of grass to nest in, watching us sweat out the stress while they munched away like docile cows.  Having happily availed ourselves of the free preview period, we gladly paid the admission fee for continued patronage by leaving our table scraps of fruit and vegetable peels at the entrance to the woods.  This not only insured our walkways remained clear of pellets, but also garnered us an audience...the trot of  hooves following us as we headed back to home...to kitchen...to soon-to-be-standard bag of apples bought just for our new friends.  One particularly forward minx broke protocol and declared a sort of reverse 'mi casa es su casa', testing daily the limits of the wilds as she inched ever closer to us...finally braving the concrete jungle of sidewalk to come right up to our front door where she would wait, quite impatiently, for whomever noticed her to summon "the lady of the house" for her daily apple. Deidre, as we discovered was her human name, became something of my shadow.  By mid-summer, I had her eating out of my hand...or perhaps, the other way round...she had me hand-feeding her.  Noble patron or servant, no matter the truth of my position, it became the highlight of my days and, soon enough, my family's favorite show.  I proudly introduced my boys to her and they'd sit on the top stoop, watching as I sang out my greeting and offered up a tidbit.  She, in turn, brought her family or fr-amily to the table, populating our back woods with frisky fauns, timid but hungry does, and overbearing stags.  Day after day, we'd exchange pleasantries and share a snack, and soon enough the rest of the herd was following suit. I'm sure the apple farmers appreciated the sudden spike in sales.

In the high heat of summer, the pavement shimmered. The hot blaze brought out new visitors. We shared our path with sun-seeking-snakes and had to play at "minefield" to avoid them.  Other visitors dropped off until it was a rarity to see another soul out walking.  Gus was beside himself...literally.  And the woods dwellers stayed well clear of the boiling tar, spending their days in the shade.  

We walked on, breathing hampered by thick air, sweat pouring down.

The little one went from saunter-slumbers to watchful-wanders.  From his perch high above, he'd gaze out at our corner of the world, eyes beginning to focus on contrast...then movement...then colors.  Birdsong filled the silence and he'd stare up into the trees, determined to locate the camouflaged soloist.  A single squirrel on a kamikaze run was enough to prompt fits of baby-giggles.  A leaf buoyed up on the wind?  Pure wonder and delight. 

That simple mile, folded in on itself, was the witness to his growth.

Blistering temps gave way to sultry breezes, and the damp of fall soon followed.  The snakes slithered back into the roadside brush, and the squirrels scampered out.  Our dear, deer friends stayed closed at hand...or hoof.  Nestled in the woods adjacent, they'd listen for our footfalls and  make their way up the driveway in time for breakfast. A lone fox sleeked by every rare once in a while, no doubt interested in the aromas of the meal we laid out for Deidre and company.

We kept walking.

Rain and sleet and snow followed.  Our footsteps adjusted to the weather, less carefree now for fear of slipping.  Sandals traded in for sneakers, then boots.  I walked in the middle of the road, avoiding the slicks of ice and skids of snow.  My companion, all 17 years of age and still full of  irrepressible childish abandon, strayed from side to side in his snowboots, sensory-seeking for icy chunks to crunch and stomp.  His little brother watched, adoringly...giggling and flailing at his idol's antics.

Gus had long since vanished underneath the first snowfall.  The leaves, once so glorious in their fall finery, littered our way now like so much dull brown refuse.  Barren tree branches creaked and cracked in the high winds.  We shivered out cloud-breaths...fingers, ears and noses gone red and numb.  The baby protested feebly from his carrier...finding it hard to turn his head from deep within his winter coat and hat.  I'd hold his hands in my own to keep them warm, swallowing them up whole inside my gloves, while he beat out a staccato on my thighs with his bootied feet.

We walked along...sometimes in the concentrated silence of survival mode, not daring to open our mouths lest the frozen air get in...more often in constant chatter as we worked our way through politics and pop-culture, book reviews and meal plans.  The baby listened intently to our banter, offering up his own input in "ooohs" and "aaaahs" when appropriate.

The air grew thin and the world turned grey.  What remained of snow, peppered with debris and gravel, melted into muddy puddles or froze into murky ice overnight.  We'd wait every day, a little bit longer than the last, for the sun to peek out before stepping out into that bleakness.  We left behind footprints, muddy outlines of our excursions, that crisscrossed with those of the deer.  Sometimes one or the other of us tripping, catching  our feet on the rocks dug up by snowplows, would grasp for the sleeve of the other.  We'd gasp in heady relief at crisis averted and trek ever onward.  Too often, we'd cut our walk short because of the cold and tumble back into the house rosy cheeked and relieved.  On those days, my little one would resist his nap, his wanderer's heart made restless by the abbreviated trip.

We walked through the days and the months, and as January arrived...the years.  We walked right through to the New Year, and left 2020 behind.

Tomorrow will be a few degrees warmer than it was today.  Perhaps we'll head out earlier.  With any luck, it will be just mild enough to go the distance. 

~Leanna