I Am a Walker

I Am a Walker

By Laura Brady DePace

I am a walker. An outside walker. A “spot the difference” walker. A walker through the seasons.

I go through my neighborhood, observing as I go. The people who used to live here moved. They're fixing up this place, probably getting ready to put it on the market, new roof, new siding.

The old lady who lives here always had such beautiful gardens. I haven’t seen her in a while; I hope she’s alright.

Hi, dog. Have a good bark. I’m going. Hello, cats, enjoy your window.

I am a fair-weather walker, to some degree. You won’t see me out in the pouring rain, or braving the icy March winds. A quiet snowstorm, now that’s another story. I love walking in all seasons. Each has their particular specialness.

In Summer, the sun shines bright. I leave home early to go on my walk, so I can take advantage of the cool of the early morning, and get back to my shady house by the heat of the day. Since my walk takes me to the boat ramp, it’s always interesting to see who is out there on the water. How many empty trailers are parked in the parking lot? I try to guess what kind of aquatic vehicle each trailer conveyed here: power boats, inboard and outboard; jet-skis, the scourge of the summer, with their mosquito-whine pointlessness; canoes and rowboats; fishing boats and duck-hunting boats; kayaks, judging by the racks on this car; a paddle-board on this car.

In Fall, I have the changing colors of the trees to admire. The scarlets of red maples. The oranges of their cousins, the sugar maples. The russet-brown-orange of the oak trees, which hold on to their leaves through the winter. The huge, dinner plate-sized leaves of the sycamore trees. The brilliant reds of the “burning bush,” euonymus alatus, invasive but beautiful. The yellows of the birches and the aspens and the beeches. And the sky becomes that “Colorado blue” that you only see in the Fall.

In Winter, I love the snow that carpets the ground, covering up all the dead leaves and broken branches and litter with a clean white sheet. The snow tells its own story. A dog was walked here, a big one, its wolf-sized pawprints accompanied by the boots of its owner. Something dog-like crossed here, coming from the woods on one side of the road to the woods on the other side of the road, straight as an arrow, one foot in front of the other, making a single line of prints. Probably a fox; maybe a small coyote. Deer prints, deep and heart-shaped. The landing and take-off of a bird, leaving feather-marks in the snow from the sweep of its wings.

Winter tells the story of the people, too. This house has kids; there are sled-tracks. Here they have a small dog that they dug a path in the snow for. These people are either retired or working from home; their driveway is not shoveled, but smoke wisps from the chimney. This house is vacant, its driveway unplowed, its snowy yard untouched, no lights warming its interior.

Spring is my favorite time of year for walking. The world is waking from the long hibernation of Winter. I eagerly scour the neighborhood for the first Spring flowers. I know who has crocuses, who has tulips, who has daffodils. I know where the marsh-mallows spring through the rocks of the streamside, and where the ivory white bloodroot grows. I know where the feral crocuses come up every year, purple and white, escaped from someone’s yard; now they have a new flower-friend joining them, dressed in yellow, a pixie-sized daffodil. Here the snowdrops grow, always flowering too early, then weathering the snow that drops on them and earns them their name. This crab-apple tree flowers in such splendor, and smells so sweet. I admire the magnolia tree, its extravagant flowers making a mess on someone else’s lawn.

I love being a walker, strolling through my neighborhood in all seasons, watching my little world change.