night walks
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Now that the weather is hot (really, really hot), Jack is having to change his walk habits. No more 3 p.m. walks, even though he still looks hopeful every day around that time. These days, we’re walking at night—usually about 9 p.m.. How nice to have a big, strong, handsome, surly quadruped to keep me safe after dark.
Our night walks are completely different from our daytime walks. I needed distraction during the day. I went from listening to music to NPR to Who Wants to Be A Millionaire (my little radio gets TV as well—I love that) to Podcasts, yet I still found myself dreading the daily slog. Is it any wonder? I’ve been walking around this same neighborhood for 15 years.
But walking after dark is entirely different. No distraction is necessary. The one time I tried hooking up to headphones, I disliked the noise and chatter. Few cars pass and nobody is mowing or blowing or hedge trimming. No kids are yelling and horsing around on their way home from school and I don’t have to worry about anyone teasing Jack, as they sometimes do, or asking to meet him, as they often do, forcing me to sadly explain his bad manners.
Nighttime noises are soothing. The hiss of sprinklers. The buzz of cicadas. Dogs bark but they seem somehow muffled and distant. Trees rustle in the breeze, when there is one. Last night the moon was big and bright—not full but nearly so. We pass few other people, although we did pass a woman a couple of nights ago.
“I can’t see you,” she said, her teeth flashing white in the last of evening’s light.
I laughed. “I can’t see you either,” I said, and we went on our way until she jogged by me again ten minutes later, a benevolent shadow. “Have a good evening,” she said as she passed.
Some evenings we get out early enough to catch the last of the sunset. In that case, we walk streets to the west of home, at the top of our hilly neighborhood, along a school playing field, where we can appreciate the enormity of the Texas sky. The other night, for the first time, I noticed a church steeple in the distance silhouetted against the dusk.
Jack and I are seeing the neighborhood in a whole different light.
Our night walks are completely different from our daytime walks. I needed distraction during the day. I went from listening to music to NPR to Who Wants to Be A Millionaire (my little radio gets TV as well—I love that) to Podcasts, yet I still found myself dreading the daily slog. Is it any wonder? I’ve been walking around this same neighborhood for 15 years.
But walking after dark is entirely different. No distraction is necessary. The one time I tried hooking up to headphones, I disliked the noise and chatter. Few cars pass and nobody is mowing or blowing or hedge trimming. No kids are yelling and horsing around on their way home from school and I don’t have to worry about anyone teasing Jack, as they sometimes do, or asking to meet him, as they often do, forcing me to sadly explain his bad manners.
Nighttime noises are soothing. The hiss of sprinklers. The buzz of cicadas. Dogs bark but they seem somehow muffled and distant. Trees rustle in the breeze, when there is one. Last night the moon was big and bright—not full but nearly so. We pass few other people, although we did pass a woman a couple of nights ago.
“I can’t see you,” she said, her teeth flashing white in the last of evening’s light.
I laughed. “I can’t see you either,” I said, and we went on our way until she jogged by me again ten minutes later, a benevolent shadow. “Have a good evening,” she said as she passed.
Some evenings we get out early enough to catch the last of the sunset. In that case, we walk streets to the west of home, at the top of our hilly neighborhood, along a school playing field, where we can appreciate the enormity of the Texas sky. The other night, for the first time, I noticed a church steeple in the distance silhouetted against the dusk.
Jack and I are seeing the neighborhood in a whole different light.
Labels: jack, memoir, the meaning of life, walking
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