Going Just a Bit Further

Yesterday's "Walk to School Day" might have inspired me a bit. Or maybe it was the lovely weather. Or the numbers I've come to detest on the bathroom scale.

I walked today. Not just a trot with a kid a half mile to school and back. Not merely a mile stroll along the Greenway.

I walked.

Four miles.

Yes I did.

Why? Because I'm crazy.

No, no, no. Being crazy had nothing to do with it (although it's a good excuse in many circumstances.) I left the car up at the Firestone store to get its brakes checked. I could have called a friend to drive me back.  One of the service guys offered to drive me and my daughter back to our house. I ought to have waited until Scott got home to even take it up there. But in between all those reasons at the top of the page, and the discussions we've had at play practice about the extensive walking habits of Europeans, I felt that as a healthy, able-bodied American, I could walk home the three miles, plus the half to the school and back for my son. My daughter couldn't walk that far, but we still have strollers.

I left from Firestone about 1:15 p.m. Right out the door I stopped to talk with a woman from my church, so I didn't get started for another few minutes. I rechecked the clock, it said 1:18 p.m. We were off.

The first mile, of course, was the worst. Most of it was a slight rise that was hard to perceive with the eye, but my calves pointed it out to me at every step. Daughter and stroller weighed about 50 pounds, making the walk a true "work-out." The sidewalk had drifts of grass clippings to wade through. The eight-year-old stroller had wheels with failing integrity and no tread; it was like they were rimmed with marshmallows. Gravity and friction were not my friends for the first mile. They were quite disagreeable. I began to feel I might BE crazy and I wondered if I'd make it home by tomorrow. The sounds of the cars dashing by on Weatherly Road made any conversation with my daughter impossible. She settled in for a nap. That was a good thing.

Before the first mile was over, I left Weatherly and began walking along Todd Mill Road. The thoroughfare fell farther behind me; the sounds in the trees accompanied me now. I startled a dozen chipmunks who were not expecting a perambulator to muss their leaf litter. Road slowly began to slope downward. My heartbeat settled, my head cooled. I walked in soothing shade that was brightened by smiles of sunlight.

The first mile took about 25 minutes. I checked my clock after I'd passed by Weatherly Elementary School where the sidewalk changed sides of the street. All things considered, I'd walked faster than I'd expected. 1:41 p.m. Onward.

The second mile moved along at a good clip. I got my wind, hit my stride. The sidewalk here was in better repair, more frequently used by families. It was not exactly level, but if it rose, it would then dip; if it leaned left, it would later list right. I was not fighting the stroller. I could lift my eyes and look ahead. A far aim does much to lengthen a stride. My heart was in a steady rhythm, and I did not feel tired. I looked around me, examining the yards of homes I so often zipped by in my car. The view ahead looked familiar, but to either side it seemed a different place entirely, to my delight. A feeling of contentment bubbled within me that a big smile only seemed natural. I faced south, soaking in the sun with my upturned face. Between a hedge and a post, I saw a spider filament shining in the sunlight, like it was some lost strand of magic. I ducked under it, for it seemed a shame to snap it, become entangled and lose it upon myself. The second mile seemed to fly. I spied Mountain Gap Road beyond the bend. I checked my clock. 2:01 p.m. About 20 minutes, what I'd hoped.

My daughter woke up, surprisingly, at the start of the third mile. She was disoriented. The surroundings were unfamiliar. She couldn't find her sunglasses. A momentary comfort and retrieval stop, and she improved. She also began to hog the water bottle. I was a bit sad that wooded part of our walk was almost over. The way wasn't much shorter or quicker than any other route, but I enjoyed driving this winding road with the over-arching trees. Walking this road was soothing. My daughter got animated as she began to recognize the landmarks on Mountain Gap Road. The traffic wasn't quite as heavy as on Weatherly, but I still couldn't hear her questions. I'd give a pat answer ("You know, that might be a possibility.") and she'd be satisfied. The walk up this road to our street wasn't long at all. I turned onto our street; I returned to the familiar. I knew with surety my pace and my step. By the time we passed our house, my clock read 2:18 p.m. About an hour for three miles.

Last mile would be to the school and back. I knew from experience that I'd arrive right about dismissal. If we walked, this would be the usual departure time. By now, I was feeling hot and thirsty. My feet were hot and sweaty. One of my toes was being rubbed by the sock. But I had to press on. I could do this. My daughter was tired of sitting and threaten to leap from the stroller any minute. Bargain: if you stay in the stroller to the school, you can leave the stroller on the walk home. Seated, for the time being. All I could think about was completing this walk. I crossed the last street as the dismissal bell rang. Our crossing guard smiled at the familiar sight of us heading to the school. If she only knew how far we'd come this time! We arrived at the front of the school before his class was released. I walked in place, because if I sat down, I wouldn't want to stand back up.

My son asked if I'd walked here. Oh, the agony and wailing to know he'd have to walk... all... the way... back home. Little dude. You only have to walk a half mile. By the time we get home, I will have walked four miles. How much further will I have walked than you? "Eight times." Right, so hush.

The last half mile. A new struggle. Wet concrete feet. Children who insisted on "helping" push the stroller. (thanks.) One who raced ahead and one who lagged behind, if they weren't irritating each other by walking on one another's feet. I began counting down how many houses to pass until we reached our own. At 2:52 pm.

A little more than an hour and a half. About 25 minutes a mile, including waits for traffic and kids. Not too shabby for an out-of-practice hausfrau. Yet cooling my heels in peace was not to be. "Mom! I want ice water!" (You, Mr. One-eighth??) "Mom! I'm hungry!" (Really, Miss Smooth-ride?)

Maybe I am crazy.

I'll prove I'm just a bit sane by going ALONE next time.

In Celebration of Defiance

It is "Banned Books Week." What better way to celebrate than to read a banned book.

As always, my mind turns to Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451." In discussing media with Scott, I learned that he had never read the book. I was shocked. This should be a must-read for everyone.

I'm ashamed to admit, I've only read it once.

It was for high school senior AP English, and my monthly book report was due. As usual, I put it off and put it off. I needed something short to read. Word was that "Fahrenheit 451" was the shortest book on Ms. Hankin's list. We also conveniently owned a Book Club edition, so no trip to the library was necessary.

I could not put the book down. The images, they haunted me. The dreadful thought of knowledge going up in indifferent flames. The comfort that each of us can be a repository of knowledge if we just commit ourselves. The final notes, twining from the mouth of Quoheleth, were the song of seventeen-- I turned, I saw my seasons, I wondered what was the purpose.

I felt ashamed that there was little of worth that I myself had memorized. All I had was a few nonsense poems, and Sara Teasdale's "The Barter." I made promises to commit myself more to the words I love.

I have not filled my mind, but I have filled my heart and my shelves. I did add Frost's "The Road Not Taken." I have not quite got down pat Poe's "To Elizabeth." Most of Nash's "The Tale of Custard the Dragon" fits in a nice safe cage. Bits here & there that delight me, that echo. I have a small book that I write only the dearest in, so that one day someone might know me. Not word-for-word, but I know Margery William's "The Velveteen Rabbit" by heart. Love DOES make us real.

So, I retrieved a copy of Mr. Bradbury's book from my branch library. Starting tonight, I read a few pages aloud to Scott. The written word has power; the spoken word has magic.

I see this age have televisions that are bigger and flatter, that claim space that once belonged to art and books. I hear this age have a continuous sound track, buried deep within ears sealed by buds that will not bloom. I witness reports of "real" life insisting that it is "art," scripts passed out to the players and audiences alike. Things move faster, brighter, louder. The "Parlor Walls" have arrived and they scare me. I do not want them in my home. It is difficult to keep this computer, that "Smart phone," in their proper places as tools.

I shall have my books. I shall delight in the turn of phrase, that dance of words, the lyrics of voice that speaks no louder than the mind.

I shall read until my eyes open no more.

My Good Day

It's almost October, which means next it'll be November, which means it'll be NaBloPoMo where it's new-year's resolutions for everyone to be better bloggers.

I'd better start now, since it's been seven and a half months since I posted anything significant. (The other three posts since then were more for fluff.)

The main thing is I've sort of spent the last seven months re-involving myself in theater, which is why I've had a "good day." For today I helped clean out the costume loft for Theatre Huntsville.

I'll admit that it was not entirely altruistic on my part. I need costume pieces for an upcoming production of "Frankenstein," (more on that in another post.) What better way is there to get a chance to pre-shop than to put some work in? Shawn, who has taken charge of the loft, was just fine with this. She uses this as a carrot to entice folks to help out on this project.

Not that anyone else showed up today. Leslie was going to be there, but her husband came down sick (vomit, fever, malaise, you know the drill) and needed tending to. Or at least buggy-whipped into going to the doctor's office.

Her loss, my gain of some yummy fresh, home-grown 'maters & a cuke from Shawn's garden!

I enjoyed working with Shawn and getting to know her. Lovely & strong lady who has remarkable twin teen boys, one who is on the spectrum and is home-schooled. Wow. I know a loving parent will do what needs to be done in the best interest of her child, but all through my son's diagnosis, I prayed that it would not come down to home-schooling. I didn't think I had the fortitude and patience for that.

Shawn evaluated which items were worthy to retain. Was it a style that might be used in a scheduled show? Was it a specialized, period costume in good repair? Was it a military uniform piece? Was it large-sized? If yes, then it was kept. Were they in poor repair? Were they something that could easily be found in a actor's closet or a thrift store? Were they vintage pieces that wouldn't fit anyone bigger than a wasp? If so, those went down to be sold.

I made few suggestions. I, instead, got a free workout. I don't know how many pounds of clothes I carried down the stairs or how many trips up and down the stairs I made, but it was plenty. I will feel the aches tomorrow, that's for sure, but I enjoyed the work.

I did rescue the "Greater Tuna" costumes. ("GT" should also be a post.) The attendance numbers were good enough for "GT" that there is talk of doing the "Christmas Tuna" show next year. Don't know if the same actors & costumes will be back for that, but likely yes. The pieces are stored all together now. I also fully unloaded the costume box, which didn't get done last week at load-out. I've now done my full part.

I also found Rose. Shawn and I talked about custom made costumes; she's bought ones made for her, and has made quite a few this past year for others. I didn't see my "Lady Windemere" costume anywhere. I wouldn't have minded having it, although of my turn as Lady Jedburgh, Jim Z. said I "looked like Queen Victoria, the decaying years." I did! Gray wig, more wrinkles than a prune, steel-gray dress, black shawl-- oh, yeah, and I loved it! I did "Lady W" for two reasons and two reasons only: I wanted to help Heather F-B with her first TH directing experience, AND I wanted the thrill of having a period costume made for me. I had fun. (Maybe one day in this blog I'll revisit old productions of WAY past.)

But I found Rose Mundy. Of the characters I've portrayed, I love Rose Mundy the most. I found my shift that was altered from a dress. I'm too big for it now, but I want it. Shawn thinks it might be useful for the next play TH is doing. If they use it, fine; if they don't, fine. But it will come home with me soon.

A pile clothes did come home with me today. I've got three cloaks for now and the coming August. I found some furry pieces perfect for a boggart (again, August-- ssshhhh.) I claimed some odds & ends to outfit a field-servant and a gypsy. I brought back over a half dozen dresses that, if they don't fit the cast, can be remade up together (or cannibalized, as I like to call it) to fit them. We are a curvy lot in this play. To round it out, I bought some old, white, fitted sheets at SVDP Thrift Store to make up some other pieces, especially for the Monster. They're far cheaper than buying yard-goods, and already aged-stained.

Yes, it was a good day for me: service for a non-profit I participate in; good company with a new acquaintance, thrifty and timely finds, a stress-free work-out and a yummy lunch.

I need this. I need to be involved.

Only tangentially related, a smart-phone self-pic from Thursday's delightful walk on the Greenway.