Month: January 2024

Mass Central Rail Trail in Wayland.

People are drawn deeper into tragedy not by their defects but by their virtues,

-Haruki Murakami

Today, Waldo and I are out walking with Phyllis on the rail-trail near her home in Weston.  It’s the one that runs straight as an arrow under some high-tension power lines.  The original plan was to walk the next leg of the Bay Circuit Trail, but I had to cancel at the last minute and we came up with this as an alternative.  I had a hard night and only got about three hours of sleep; I’m not sure why.  Maybe it had something to do with a pain in my right chest wall that kept waking me up.  It’s still there, but walking doesn’t make it worse, so, here we are.  Ah, the aches and pains that old age is heir to…

We got to the parking lot, where we are to meet Phyllis, little early, so we’re out strolling in circles, waiting for her.  A red SUV, about the same color as Phyllis’s car, but not the right model, pulls up about four car lengths away from us and a white-haired woman gets out.  Waldo immediately shakes his butt and wants to cross over to where she is.  I’m sure he thinks she’s Phyllis.  He constantly shows me how intelligent he is.  Even more often, he shows me how twisted his brain is, like when he puts some of the stuff in his mouth that he does.

It’s not long and Phyllis shows up and we’re off (as soon as Waldo is finished doing his welcoming waggy, licky ritual and getting his requisite pets and pats in return).  It rained last night and there are still a lot of clouds blocking what meager sunlight we get this time of year.  The ground is still a little damp, but there isn’t a lot of standing water or mud.  The temperature is in the high 30s, but there’s not much wind, so it’s not that cold.  Waldo seems quite happy and is off at the front of the leash, doing his Waldo thing.

There’s this weird thing that happens with friends.  Maybe you don’t see them for weeks, then, when you do, you strike up a conversation as if it began with a comma.  You know, you jump right into the middle of something like it was the continuation of a subject you just started discussing a minute ago.  We’re talking about all manner of stuff, some of which I’m more interested in, some that intrigues Phyllis.  Stuff like the benefits of a vegan diet (Phyllis), the requirements for a study to be called a “scientific” study (me), how delicious a recent gourmet meal was (Phyllis) and how I know Phyllis can learn a new language because, after all, she can speak English perfectly well and all languages use the same part of the brain (me).  A little over an hour into our trek and the conversation wanders over to a person Phyllis knows who was just diagnosed with tubo-ovarian cancer.

It turns out that this woman had some respiratory symptoms that caused her to get a chest x-ray.  Two different radiologists looked at it.  One thought there might be a lesion suspicious for a metastasis, and the other thought that was an over-read.  The woman’s PCP decided to follow it up and she got an abdominal CT.  That showed an ovarian mass and some spots on her liver.  A laparoscopy confirmed all this and they got a piece of tissue that they tested that revealed the cancer.  I’m hearing all this and shaking my head, yeah.  This is the usual way that ovarian cancer is found – incidentally.  It’s asymptomatic in its early stages and most often found serendipitously only at a late stage.  If there are metastases in the lung and liver (probably elsewhere too) it is late-stage cancer.

“What I don’t understand,” says Phyllis, “is why this happened to her.  She is young, only slightly more than half our age, she has no family history, she eats healthy, doesn’t smoke or drink, and exercises regularly.”

Personally, I don’t ask “why” when something happens.  That suggests that there is someone or something that directs what happens and can be made to justify their choices.  I ask how, when and to what extent, but that isn’t relevant here.  So, I listen.

“She’s married, has a couple of kids and is living a good life.  Why would this happen to her?” says Phyllis.  “I just don’t understand.”

It really is tragic and I understand Phyllis isn’t really looking for an answer, she needs to release some of the angst it has caused.  Some of our conversations are more pleasant than others, but the fact that we are friends means we can talk about anything.  And I don’t need to say anything here.  It’s my job to listen.

As much as life pains us, there is only so much that can be said about its vagaries.  We wallow in the sorrow of it all and then move on.  I think Phyllis is comforted, a bit, in sharing her pain, but she can be hard to read.  Soon, we’re back to our cars and we’ve walked 10 miles.

Maybe next time, we can talk about more pleasant things.

No power lines on the Marlborough rail trail.

Japanese knotweed — a mere shadow of its summer self.

Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of the winter day.

-Elizabeth Bowen

We’re definitely in winter now.  The solstice has come and gone, the sun rises no more than 24 degrees above the horizon and the shadows are always long.  The temperatures have been all over the map, from the high teens in the early morning to the low fifties late in the day.  This past month was the warmest December in the last 150,000 years.  And we haven’t had any snow yet.  Wind and rain, yeah, but none of the white stuff.  I’m not complaining, just making an observation.

Waldo and I continue to be fortunate in that we have missed the wettest hours of rain.  Sometimes, it’s misty enough to soak the outside of my rain suit, and on occasion, it has even sprinkled a bit.  But except for those spits and sputters, natures raspberries, we’ve been able to find enough time to do our 6 miles and still avoid the downpours.  Not that a hardy deluge would keep us from our appointed rounds, hell no.  But my rainsuit is getting a bit used and heavy rain will soak through to my clothes.  I haven’t yet had to deal with icicles growing down the front of my hood, like they have in the past, either.  But with the shorter days, if it’s overcast, it gets quite dark just after sunset, which is now around 4:20 PM.

As we walk through our usual haunt, I see that we are, clearly, well ensconced in winter.  Deciduous trees and bushes have lost their leaves, except for a few marcescent oaks and even they have only shriveled, tan remnants of what was broad and green.   The autumn olives are mere sticks in the mud and the Japanese knotweed is just a bunch of red, hollow pencils poking skyward.  Most of the vines, that climbed trailside trunks and covered much of the foliage, are now coiled thick ropes that wind around what’s left.

The grass, while still somewhat green, has yellow blades interspersed with its chlorophyl-filled brothers and is now mere stubble.  Carpets of dark green moss and liverwort still line the tarmac, but they’ve lost the plump, fluffy pile they had in the warmer months.  The pale green of white pine is still buried in the deep of the forests, as if to remind any who look that, yes, indeed, woods are green.  The hardy English ivy persists on the tall dead stump of an oak and is unencumbered by the poison ivy that it competes with in the summer.  Garlic mustard can be seen here and there, although their leaves are not nearly as big as they were this past rainy summer.  The cinnamon and sensitive ferns are gone along with the low-lying undergrowth that hides the floor of the woods in the warmer months.

If I look skyward, I can clearly see basketball-sized clumps of sticks and dead leaves that are squirrel homes.  When the trees are all leafed out, they’re well hidden, but they’re quite obvious now.  I never have seen one of those guys cavorting outside their house, but, even in the cold, I see an occasional gray, fluffy-tailed rodent romp in the woods.  Not nearly in the numbers that I did a few months ago, though.  Back then, they seemed always to be in pairs.  Now there’s just a solitary fellow, out doing whatever it is that they do this time of year.  Maybe he’s engaged in a honey-do, I have no idea.

There are a few birds still around, although their song is a rarer thing these days.  Once in a great while, I’ll spot a cardinal flitting across my path, and even a blue jay, now and then.  Maybe their relative scarcity is due to an instinctual desire to stay someplace warm, when they find or make one, unless forced to do otherwise.  They don’t have border collies who need walking, I suppose.  There are no Emmy birds, though.  They’re long gone until late spring.

Waldo doesn’t seem to notice any of this, or maybe he just takes it in stride.  There are a lot more sticks laying around, but he no longer has the fervent need to move them around like he used to as a puppy.  He just trots along, nose less than an inch above the ground, and takes in whatever nature has to offer.  Maybe he’s just more interested in what is there, under his nose, now, instead of what was there in the past or will be in the future.

All this ambience is quite familiar, yet there seems to be something missing.  Ah, yes.  Of course.  Snow.  Well, it’s coming.  There’s a forecast for 6-12 inches of the stuff for 3 days from now.

And how the scenery will change then!

Covid Garden in winter.

Current state of the construction at the beginning of the rail trail.

Progress is man’s ability to complicate simplicity.

-Thor Heyerdahl

The temperature is somewhere in the mid-forties when Waldo and I start out on our trek today.  The sky is overcast, but the air is dry and there is little wind blowing.  I’m wearing a light jacket under my rain jacket and I have on a knit wool ski hat that I pull down over my ears.  Waldo and I pass others on the trail, including those with dogs and even a few bicycles.  Bicycles in late December!  But then, this is shaping up to be the warmest December in 150,000 years…

We’ve had to find new places to park our car for the past few weeks because of all the construction that’s going on.  The commercial residential housing complex that’s being built at the beginning of the rail-trail hasn’t affected where we park.  What it’s replacing are a number of old buildings that had no public parking.  Across the street from there, though, is where we used to park.  One day, as we arrived, people were fencing it in.  I asked what was up, but they didn’t know.  Now, it’s all been dug up.  There’s no sign, yet, that they’re going to put a building up there, so maybe it’ll be a future parking lot, who knows.  For now, though, we can’t park there.

It turns out there’s a parking lot, owned by the city, that is about an eighth of a mile from the start of the trail, but right next to it.  We parked there, for a week or so, then, one day, there was a fence all the way around it with gates that were closed.  After a few days, there were some men there and I asked them what was up.  They said the city was repaving it and putting in some lights.   I suspect there is more to it than that, though, because now there are some cement culverts and other structures, lying above ground, that suggest there is underground construction of some sort that is planned too.  Anyway, that’s one more spot where we can’t park.

There is another lot, also right next to the trail, about a quarter-mile from the start, that the city has designated as rail-trail parking and that’s where we park for now and the foreseeable future.  It is winter, after all, and although there is no snow yet, there will be and then it will be difficult to dig holes.  So I expect we’re stuck with what we’ve got until spring.  It’s no big deal, really.  We just start a quarter-mile from the start, backtrack to the start and then turn around and continue down the trail like we always do.  Waldo was a bit confused at first, but he’s a fast learner and he now knows where we’re going and it’s part of our routine.

Then, a couple days ago, we’re walking down the trail and as we get to the open field that overlooks Fort Meadow Reservoir, I see a man putting up a fence around it.  This fence is clearly temporary; the posts don’t go into the ground, they sit on platforms, of sorts, that rest on top of the ground.  The field is a big grass-and-weed-overgrown landfill, closed well before Waldo and I arrived, and the fence runs about an eighth of a mile alongside the trail.  I ask the guy what’s up and he says someone is going to turn the area into a park of some kind.  He didn’t know any of the details, like who was doing it, so, maybe, he was just feeding me a line to shut me up, I don’t know.  Today, I see a piece of heavy equipment chopping up the trees that border the field and turning them into saw-dust.  A nice park is a good thing, I guess, but I hate seeing all the trees being destroyed.

Right next to the landfill is the area of forest that a company from Texas wanted to turn into another commercial residential complex.  For now, that project has been put on hold because the residents around the area were opposed to it.  It is zoned for industrial use and the city council would not rezone it so they could build what they wanted.  They can still build something that fit the zoning it now has, so there’s no guarantee that the forest will be safe, but I can hope.

Meanwhile, the construction at the beginning of the trail has progressed quite a bit.  There is a completed five-story parking structure at the back of the lot and cement pillars are now poking up skyward where the rest of the building will be.  By spring, I expect most of the bones and outer walls will be finished and, at the rate things are going, the place may be open by next summer.  I’m no luddite, but I sure wish that the universe would leave my little patch of nature alone.  But, alas, it seems it is not to be.

For now, I walk the walk and enjoy the birdsong and trees, take in the peace and quiet of relatively untouched nature and hope for the best.  Waldo trots along as if oblivious to the coming changes and lives in the moment without fear of what the future has to offer.

We enjoy what we’ve got, while we have it.

The fence at Fort Meadow Reservoir.

Sigh. It’s going to be a while before we can be back here.

Stercus accidit.

(Shit happens)

-David Hume

About four days ago, I was walking down the stairs at our apartment building, taking the dog out for doggy business.  I was midflight, Waldo was down a flight in front of me, when I misstepped, hyperextending my right ankle.  Down I went, falling against the wall, then on to the landing.  My immediate thought was, “Damn!  No rail-trail today.”   Once on the floor, I did a quick systems check.  Yep, my ankle hurt.  It was the same injury, done in the same way, as two years ago, only this time, not nearly as painful.  Waldo stopped his progress toward the door and the great beyond, turned and looked at me and waited.  With some wincing, I stood and put weight on the foot.  Not a whole lot worse.  A wave of nausea and sweating flowed over me and then subsided.  I took a step.  I could hobble.  Waldo could see that I was upright and moving, so he continued on his way.  That’s about as much sympathy as I get.  Anyway, we carried on, just a lot more slowly than usual, and did the doggy duty.

Today, walking is painful, but not too bad.  What bothers me the most is that the ankle is stiff and if I try to bend it, it hurts more.  Not unbearably so, mind you, but I worry that doing too much will make the recovery time longer and, dammit, we need to get back to the rail-trail.  At home, I elevate the foot and wait for it to heal (the pain and swelling aren’t so bad that I need to use ice or wrap it).  When we go out, I walk stiff-legged on the injured side and make do as best I can.  Waldo adjusts his pace as well, or rather, he trots back and forth in front of me, doing S turns.  He burns off his energy as best he can, while being tethered to a not-so-moveable object.  Sorry, buddy, you are not going to like the next few days and maybe weeks.  But there is little choice.

The weather has been a little chilly, with highs in the low 40s and lows in the high 20s, but it’s been dry.  As one day morphs into the next, I’ve become more depressed.  Not significantly so, but I can feel it.  I’m attached to being out in nature, walking with Waldo, and I miss it.  Waldo seems to take it all in stride.  He’s a happy puppy and that doesn’t change.  He does romp a little more vigorously than usual, but he doesn’t exhibit any bad-dog behavior, like chewing on stuff that he shouldn’t.  He seems to live in the moment; he just has more energy to vent than normal, in that moment.

Life throws all kinds of things at us that we don’t intend.  With a little thought, you can usually trace out a causal chain of events that explains how things happen, but that does little to allow us to control it.  It’s up to us to decide how we’re going to respond to what life offers us.  Me, I try to put some thought to it, put my shoulder to the boulder and push it on uphill.  In this case, I walk as necessary to see that Waldo gets to relieve himself, then try to judge how my ankle is reacting and decide how far to go the next day.  I’ve decided to try to walk one to two miles tomorrow, wearing my hiking boots.  Day after tomorrow, I’ll assess how my ankle is doing, then decide how far to push it from there.  The spirit is demanding, but the goddammed old-age flesh is frustratingly weak.

Waldo has a different approach.  It’s all hell-bent-for-leather and do as much as he can.  When his legs were sore after his vaccinations, he hobbled around, favoring them, but pushed it as hard as he could.  He didn’t try to limit how much he was going to do.  He was continuing on as long as I let him.  He’s a lot younger than I am, though, and can get away with it.  I’ve learned, the hard way, that I can no longer do that.  If I try, I’ll pay a steep price.  Dammit.  All I can do is push the damn rock up the hill judiciously.

I’m also frustrated by the fact that Phyllis and I only have 5 more legs of the Bay Circuit Trail to do before we get to the end.  I was hoping we could at least get closer before the first significant snowfall.  Now that doesn’t look so probable at all.  Sigh.

But Waldo and I are still out there, trying.

I’d be more than happy with a wet day.

Nice sunny day, Waldo is himself.

We go through the good, the bad and the ugly all together.

-Emily Robinson

It’s cold today.  The feel-like temp is around 28℉.  It’s overcast again, but no precipitation and the wind is minimal.  Still, I’m wearing rain pants, to help hold in the warmth, and my parka.  Waldo seems comfortable enough and is eager to go walking.  I can’t help but wonder how warm his fur is.  When it’s cold, I keep a close watch on him for any signs that he’s uncomfortable.  I watch for shivering and any tendency to stop and go back, for example.  But he continues on, relishing being outdoors.  I also judge how comfortable he is in the cold by watching him on his balcony.  He can come in and go out as he pleases, yet, in these temperatures, he stays outside and only comes in when he needs to be taken downstairs to relieve himself.  Our human ancestors must have watched furry animals and had similar observations because they killed animals, stole their fur and survived just fine in the cold.

I’m also watching Waldo today because he was a little lame yesterday after his yearly vet exam.  He’s a really smart dog, which means he’s complicated.  He has a really good heart and is very friendly and loving.  But, he has his boundaries.  Like the balcony.  He’s decided that’s his territory and he doesn’t like me out there.  I go there and he yells at me, leaving me no doubt whatsoever that he doesn’t think I should be there.  He’s consolable and, after a bit, he accepts it, be he doesn’t like it.

Last year, he decided he didn’t want the vet to mess with him.  In the past, he was startled by stuff like getting a shot, but otherwise put up with it.  Last year, he wouldn’t let the vet examine him at all.  He wouldn’t let him look in his ears or look at his teeth.  Nope, he was having none of it.  He didn’t tolerate a muzzle and I had to reschedule the visit so I could premedicate him with some trazadone pills.  That didn’t work either, so the vet ended up giving him a shot that put him completely to sleep.  Giving him that shot was fun, let me tell you.

So, this year, we planned on going the shot route.  Waldo came into the vet’s office, happy and wagging his tail, eager to meet everybody.  Then we went into the exam room and his demeanor changed completely.  But we planned for this.  I sat in a chair placed so the vet could get to his butt.  I held onto his collar tight and reassured him as best I could.  A vet tech held a blanket over his face so he couldn’t see what the vet was doing.  As soon as the vet touched his butt, though, even before he gave the shot, Waldo went ballistic.  He snarled and writhed, letting everyone know that what was going down just wasn’t acceptable.  I held on tight and in just a few seconds, the job was done, the blanket was removed and I released my hold.  Poor thing was obviously frightened.  I petted him, talked calmly and softly to him and he quieted down after a bit.  A few minutes later and he was out.  Problem solved.  I wish I had some of that stuff to give when I worked in the ER.

Waldo’s exam was perfectly normal and he got some vaccine shots.  After the exam, the vet gave him a reversing agent and, within ten minutes, he jumped to his feet and was ready to get the hell out of Dodge.

After we got home, he was still a little groggy, so we spent the morning napping.  I thought we might be able to go for our walk later in the afternoon, but he developed a limp on the side where he got his shots.  It obviously bothered him, but not too much.  I figured he was sore from the vaccine.  I get muscle aches and pains after I get vaccines, so he probably was just suffering from that.  I decided to put off the rail-trail walk until today.  When we went out to pee and poop around the complex, he was a bit gimpy, but okay.  His behavior was a little off and I couldn’t tell if it was after-effects of the anesthesia or if he was mad at me.

Today, I haven’t noticed any limping at all and he’s acting like his same old self.  He’s giving me lots of attention, getting in my way as I try to put on my boots, and doing his best to get me to play.  So, we’re back out here on the rail trail.  He cavorts and I watch.  Everything is back to normal.

Yesterday was just another speed bump in the road of life.

My old friend, the English ivy tree.