Walking with Waldo

Smoke has reduced visibility to about a mile.

May freedom be seen, not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to please to do what is right.

-Peter Marshall

Smoke from the Canadian wildfires has invaded our airspace.  The Air Quality Index is 122, which makes it bad for people who are sensitive.  The air smells a little like smoke from a wood fire and it’s dense like fog, but not colored like smog.  Visibility is limited to about a mile to a mile and a half.  It’s muggy out, but there is no forecast of rain today, which is a pity as that would clean the air, for sure.  The temperature is in the high sixties and I’m sweating pretty good.  Shadows are only vaguely present, due to sunlight being so strongly scattered by the smoke – there is only a slight brightening off toward the east, nothing that would reveal the location of the sun.

Waldo’s sniffing around on both sides of the trail, wandering off into the weeds, exploring whatever it is he finds interesting.  He’s on a twenty-six-foot leash, so he has plenty of freedom to go about doing his Waldo thing without much impediment.  But he’s not totally free.  Keeping him on a tether allows me to keep him safe when he encounters aggressive dogs, or gets the notion to charge off to somewhere that could put him in danger.  The leash is a compromise.  I sometimes feel guilty for not being able to provide Waldo with large open fields, where he can run at will, and flocks of sheep he can herd and boss around.  But either there are many more border collies out there than there are farms and pastures, or there damn well ought to be.  Waldo is a wonderful friend and I’m so happy to have him in my life.

Freedom is a funny thing and hard to adequately define.  In a very real sense, it is entirely a state of mind.  You may not be physically free to do something you’d like to do, like I would like to travel more than I can afford to, or you may be forced to do something you really don’t want to, like pay taxes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel free.  I remember, years ago, when I returned to the US, at age fourteen, after spending 18 months living in Ethiopia with my family.  My life felt different, although very familiar.  My memory told me that when I was in East Africa, I was happier and I wondered why.  Some of that was obvious, the sense of adventure was exquisite and spoiled me forever.  But there was something else as well.  Searching my soul to see what that something else was, I discovered that I felt freer there than here.  Politically, Ethiopia has never been, and is not now, freer that the US.  And being a young teenager without the opportunity or ability to drive myself around, I had to wonder what this sense of freedom was all about.

When I returned to Ethiopia, at the age of twenty-one, for another two-year visit, that feeling was there, brought to the surface from the depths of my subconscious.  One day, some friends and I were stopped by a policeman in the city of Gondar.  There are no police cars or police motorcycles that patrol the streets and roads, the man simply stood out in front of us and held up his hand.  We stopped and asked what he wanted.

I don’t remember how many of us there were, but there enough of us that we all couldn’t fit inside one vehicle (we had a Land Rover).  We left Asmara, some three hundred miles to the north, in two cars and a truck.  One of our vehicles had mechanical problems and was getting repaired.  We didn’t want to take the truck to the restaurant we were going to for dinner, so we all piled into and onto the Land Rover as best we could – three or four of us hanging onto the back, standing on the running board, and sitting on the hood.  The policeman was angry about that and shouted at us.  We didn’t understand why he reacted that way because nearly every bus on the road had people hanging precariously on them in a more dangerous way than what we were doing.  The policeman responded by rebuking us with, “You wouldn’t do that in your country, but you come over here and do whatever you want!”  We apologized, but still confused, and made adjustments to our mode of transportation.

Thinking about that later, I decided the man had a point.  We tried to be respectful of how the people of our host country lived and thought, but we didn’t always get it right.  In this case, I think the cop was offended by the fact that we, guests in his world, didn’t feel constrained by the normative values of his culture, although we didn’t violate any.  And we didn’t feel constrained by them at all, other than to be respectful of them.

Human beings, most of them anyway, carry around in their subconsciouses a set of cultural normative values.  They’re implanted in us at an early age and we can’t escape them.  We always carry them around with us – you can leave your country, but you can never escape your culture.  I always subconsciously feel that there is a collection of shoulds and shouldn’ts that I am responsible to.  If I violate them, guilt will follow, to some degree.  I also have this subliminal feeling that the eyes of my culture are on me, watching how I behave.  Eyes that will tsk and shame if I don’t toe the line.  All of this is totally in my head and has no substance in physical reality, but it’s real, just the same.  But those watchers and censures are not always so obviously manifest.

When I came to Ethiopia, everything was so different and foreign to me.  From the language spoken, to the food eaten, the clothing worn and most peoples’ very way of life, none of it felt like it was mine.  I didn’t feel responsible to the cultural pressures that were applied to me from the host culture (mine was somewhat smothered by the adventure of it all) to subliminally keep me in line.  It was like the lid of a pressure cooker had been removed.  And as a young teenager, and later as a young man in his early twenties, exploring the limits of what life had to offer, it was heaven.

Waldo is not free, for sure, but who of us, living in twenty-first century urban environments, is?  I try to find places where I can let Waldo off leash, like fenced in ballparks, at least sometimes, but mostly, it’s just him and me, out in the world, tethered together by a synthetic umbilical cord that binds as together as a unit.  He may not be free, exactly, but he is happy, even though he lives in a city.

And so am I.

Waldo may not be free, but he’s a free spirit!

We’ve had many rainy days….

In the spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

=Mark Twain

The past few days, a few weeks actually, have been warm, with highs in the mid-eighties, and humid, making it feel even hotter.  The warmth and humidity have made intermittent thunderstorms wash across our little piece of the planet, complicating our walks a little.  Rain is just water and won’t melt us, but my raincoat (appropriately called un imperméable in French) is very uncomfortable when it gets above about 60℉.  With the humidity, it’s sweltering in there.  So, I try to avoid walking in the rain for any distance, if I can.  I don’t think Waldo likes it much either, especially when it’s raining hard – he adjusts his path so he wanders under bush or tree for shelter.  But I also can’t help but think it cools him off a little.  We’ve been pretty lucky, so far, and able to adjust the time we leave (from the break of dawn to midmorning) to fit our walk into a dry hole between downpours.

By the looks of it, the local flora loves this weather.  I’ve never seen so many huge burdock leaves, large bunches of garlic mustard, fast growing-grass and ten-foot, or more, stands of Japanese knotweed.  Everywhere I look, there are dark green, happy-looking plants.  Sumac, sassafras, elm, black walnut, tree of heaven, maples, oaks, birches, aspens, locust, linden, white pine, cedar – all cast deep shadows on the ground with a prolific suffusion of leaves.  The bushes and weeds next to the trail put up an impenetrable curtain of green, blocking the sight of what lies beyond.  In the wetter places are innumerable ferns, so dense that their pinnate leaves overlap in a moiré pattern, making them seem out of focus.  Along the creeks are skunk cabbages, bigger than heads of lettuce, and ponds all fuzzy with green algal blooms.

Somehow, Massachusetts has largely avoided being suffocated by the smoke of all those wildfires happening in Canada right now.  I would guess it’s due to our proximity to the ocean, which channels storms up our way from the tropics, and wash the skies clean.  Watching the progression of storms on radar, I can clearly see them approaching from the south.  But New York City is also next to the ocean and they have, on occasion, suffered worse than we have, so that can’t be the whole story.  Oh, we’ve had smoke filled days where the unseasonal odor of burning wood is obvious, but the air quality hasn’t been so bad that Waldo and I haven’t been able to safely venture out to our daily sojourns in nature.

Like Waldo and me, other people wander out here, many with their dogs.  We exchange comments about the humidity and our shirts soaking in warm sweat, while the dogs sit patiently by, tongues hanging out and dripping.  But these are not so much grumblings as simple observations about the character of the day, like talking about how the Red Sox are doing.  When you’re in a building, toiling away at your means of sustenance, you don’t often talk about what’s happening with the weather.  But when you’re out here in the midst of whatever nature is throwing your way, it’s natural to talk about it.  And not just the weather.  I pass people who tell me they saw a red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, or to look out for a piliated woodpecker I can hear ratatatting somewhere off in the trees, or point out a rare jack-in-the-pulpit growing alongside the trail, or asking if I saw a red fox crawl from the foliage, then prance down the trail.  When you’re in nature, truly in it and not just passing through, you pay attention to what’s around you and you share your experience with those you pass.  It’s a beauty-shared-holds-twice-the-magic kind of thing.

As for the weather, at least the low temperatures aren’t 76℉ or higher.  When that’s the coolest it’s going to be, it’s real hard to justify spending two-and-a-half hours walking with Waldo.  He’s miserable.  We’re better off staying home and walking around the property more often than customary.  He can go out onto the balcony to survey his dogdom and yell at the squirrels, birds and rabbits, passing down whatever decrees, or recriminations, or whatever it is he’s doing.  He lays down under the air conditioner and cools off a bit from the condensed water dripping onto his back.  When he gets too hot, he can always wander inside and cool off in our climate-controlled apartment before returning to his duties.  He doesn’t burn off as much of his border collie energy and is a little more frenetic than usual, but he doesn’t suffer.

But, when we’re able, it’s so much nicer venturing of into the woods and enjoying what Mother Nature has to offer.

And we do it as often as we can.

…and the plants show it. These are huge burdock leaves.

Sunrise over Fort Meadow Reservoir.

Green is a label for a certain attitude to life, a certain kind of respect that one might have for the very source of things that we take for granted.

-Annie Lennox

Waldo and I are up at 4:30, so we can start our walk by 5.  It’s still dark out when we first rouse, but twilight arrives soon after and by the time we start, even though the sun hasn’t yet risen, it’s light enough to see quite well.  Today is going to be a “kin to cain’t” (an expression used by slaves before the civil war) day, starting just as we can begin to see and going on until we can’t.  We will be napping for a bit somewhere in the middle, unlike the slaves, though.  I am cool in my shirtsleeves and Waldo seems comfortable enough in his sable coat.  A light breeze adds to the mild ambiance.

Green pervades everything.  I can almost believe that I’m wearing emerald tinted glasses.  Every leaf of every plant now has a hue somewhere between a light pea to a deep forest green.  Chlorophyl is hard at work, using sunlight to convert carbon dioxide into sugar and oxygen, and it does so quite efficiently.  The biochemical absorbs quite well at all wavelengths except that of green.  Since it is the only visible color that is not absorbed, it is the only one we see coming off photosynthesizing leaves.  Chlorophyl is so good at absorbing light that 95% of the non-green light is absorbed in the deep woods.  Since plants cannot “see” green (in the sense that green light cannot be used by chlorophyl), it is quite dark to them under the canopy of the deep forest.  We mammals can see green quite well, so it’s not that dark to us, but it is quite shady, of course.  And green.  Waldo can’t see red and green as well as I can (dogs only have two kinds of cones in their eyes, whereas we have three), but he sees the world through his nose anyway.    Some plants have evolved to grow well enough in that subdued light, but most have not.  For that reason, forest floors are relatively barren, being covered mostly by old dead leaves and pine needles.

As Waldo and I walk along the rail-trail, this becomes quite obvious — once I find a place where I can see past all the foliage that grows beside the trail and into the trees beyond.  Next to the tarmac, and within some twenty feet or so, there’s grass, moss, ferns, Japanese knotweed, orange jewel weed, burdock and bitter dock, clumps of garlic mustard and other low-lying bushes and weeds.  The trail slices a wide enough gash into the overlying canopy where, during some part of the day, direct sunlight can penetrate down to the ground, allowing these plants to flourish.   Not just the ground-bound plants, but also poison ivy and other vines can grow there.  Healthy, older trees grow above where the vines can reach and stay alive with their high spans of leafy branches, but they are denuded lower down.  Next to the trail, vines strangle the trees and, sometimes, completely cover the lower trunks in their brand of leafage.  Beyond about thirty feet from the trail, this doesn’t happen – there are no vines, no weeds, no bushes, just brown ground.

All this makes the trail a very interesting place to walk.  There is so much more variety of flora near the trail than in the deep woods.  True, thick forests have their own interesting biomes and varieties of plants.  But I’m continually astounded by how many different kinds of green growing things I find right next to where I stand.  I’m sure that all this happens by dint of Mother Nature – no human hand has planted any of these.  And all of these trees are less than 150 years old.  I can tell that because of the diameter of their trunks.  There are only a few that are thicker than two feet, and none are more than three (the diameter of trees grow at the rate of about two feet per one hundred years, more or less).  Almost all of the trees in New England were cut down somewhere around a hundred years ago, so what I’m seeing is all new growth.

And it’s all so green!  I’m so impressed by that because I spent most of my early years out west where everything is a pastel shade of tan and yellow – it’s much dryer out there.  Oh, there is some green, but not like the green around here!  I feel like I’m awash in the color.  It all feels so healthy and alive!  There is beauty to desert, huge formations of sandstone and the rolling hills of sand dunes, for sure.  But there is something so life-affirming about fertile verdure.  It’s also shadier, which makes it more comfortable.

I will always enjoy treks into and through drier, more barren climes, but I much prefer to be here in the New England woods.

With Waldo at the end of the leash, of course.

Early morning haze due to Canadian smoke.

Damn, that’s green!

Education is not the filling of a pot but the lighting of a fire.

-W.B. Yeats

June has been a strange month.  There were some very hot days in May, with temps in the nineties, but June has been mild.  Every morning, Waldo and I get up early and go for our six-mile sortie into the woods, not because we need to beat the heat, but because we can.  Sometimes, when we start, it’s a bit chilly for me in my shirtsleeves, but Waldo, in his sable birthday suit, is quite comfortable.  Before we’re done, though, I’m sweating and Waldo is dropping sticks so he can pant.  It makes for a very pleasant walk.

Mother Nature is fully greened-out now.  We’ve had a good amount of rain, which has helped, and early summer has arrived.  I have some favorite places along the trail, mainly because the density of trees and bushes provides a good amount of shade, but also because the verdant atmosphere is somehow welcoming and comforting.  It feels kind of like coming home.  But the trail really has no places that aren’t surrounded by foliage, moss or grass.

As we walk along, we come across a busy street and Waldo stops and sits, waiting for me to tell him it’s okay to proceed.  Cars come by and their drivers are waving at us to cross.  “I’m training the dog,” I say in response and wave them on.  There is a waving competition that goes on for a while, the goal being to be the one that persists in waving the longest, but I always win.  I have it in my mind that if Waldo ever gets loose and tries to cross a street, then he will, from habit, stop and wait for cars to pass before he proceeds.  Will it work?  I dunno, but it can’t hurt.

One of the things that seems to be different about getting older is that I now have this insatiable urge to pass on important lessons I’ve learned along the way.  I suppose some of this is biological in origin, since human offspring develop so slowly and need to be cared for by their parents for so long.  Especially in today’s complex world, there is so much that needs to be learned before an individual can function on his own.  So, my impulses to teach aren’t directed only at Waldo, but also at my grandchildren.  Sadly, neither is very interested in listening, though.

There were so many struggles I went through as I was growing up that I really would like to talk to my grandchildren about.  Not as entertaining stories, at least not all the time, but to pass on important insights so they won’t have to learn them on their own.  Like, we are our own worst critics and hold ourselves back more than anyone else.  I remember well, at a young age, being afraid of failure and causing that failure by not trying very hard in school — I wouldn’t do all of my homework or read everything assigned.  The subliminal thought was, I could always say that I didn’t really fail because I never really tried.  At some point, I figured out that was bass-ackward.  If I really tried at some activity and failed, then it only meant that I just wasn’t born with what was required to perform that activity and it was by no fault of mine.  I also discovered that if I approached an endeavor with the attitude of, I will just see what I can do, without the conviction that there is a limit to what I can do, I could do more than I ever dreamed was possible.

I watch my grandchildren struggling and my heart goes out to them because so much of their pain is self-inflicted.  I, too, went through what they are going through, but made it to the other side.  Why can’t I just save them the trouble and tell them the secrets of how to do it so they don’t have to struggle?  Somehow, it just doesn’t work that way.

But then, I’ve found out that at least some of it does leak through the fog of growing up.  Decades after telling my daughter something, she has come up to me and said, “You know, I remember when you told me…”  I had no idea she was even listening.  So, maybe, there is some of what I have to teach that is being learned.

Waldo and I continue on our way and soon are amongst the ferns and moss.  A cool breeze carries the happy songs of birds going about their daily business.  A musty scent of damp earth wafts our way and the shadows of leaves dance on the ground in synchrony with the wind sighing in their branches.  Squirrels chase each other through the bushes and insects buzz around us.  I don’t need to teach Waldo the essential importance of all this.  He already knows.

I just wish I could pass it along to all those who are too busy to bother.

Gates to the Green Wood.

Cinnamon fern.

True life is lived when tiny changes occur.

-Leo Tolstoy

The days have turned cool, with highs in the mid sixties and lows in the high forties to low fifties.  And rain.  But the rain is kind of stuttering — mostly easily avoided and, when not, it’s usually more of a heavy mist than a hard rain.  Waldo likes this cooler weather to walk in and is in his element.  Although now June, the mosquitoes haven’t yet come out in hordes and the worst of the bugs are troublesome gnats.  And ticks, of course.  Waldo likes to wander into the weeds and he picks them up as if advertising for tenants.  Because of his black fur, I can’t see them, but I can feel them when I pet him.  Some of the weeds he brushes up against are poison ivy.  Fortunately, I’m not allergic and have never had a reaction to the stuff.  Yet.

Two days ago, while we were on the rail-trail, I noticed some ferns that had tan stalks stabbing skyward in the middle of their usual green fronds.  They stood out so flagrantly that I was amazed I’d never noticed them before.  Curious, I speciated them on my Picture This app.  Cinnamon ferns (Osmundastrum cinnamomeum), they were.

The plant is perennial and the cinnamon-colored stalks are fertile fronds.  In mid to late spring, the tan spike-like fertile leaves grow in the center of their sterile green brethren. On these spikes are small beady capsules that contain spores.  After the release of the spores, the spikes die back and become inconspicuous.  Today, I can find only a few of the cinnamon-colored stalks.  That explains why I never noticed them before.  The stalks, although easily seen when present, are not present for very long.  If I wasn’t looking at the right time, I would miss them.  I seem to frequently be reminded of how inobservant I can be.

One of the things that I’ve learned to watch out for is the English ivy tree.  While standing out in the deep, hard winter, because it’s one of the rare plants that still has green leaves, in the spring and summer, it’s not so noticeable.  Not only are there leaves everywhere now, the English ivy leaves are obscured by an overgrowth of other vines.  The tree these vines grow on is dead, but it provides a vertical trellis that lifts the plants skyward where their leaves can get more sun.  Even the ivy leaves on the ground are buried by other growing things.

Since the coldest part of the winter when I noticed the English ivy, I’ve also been following the appearance of garlic mustard.  It grows close to the ground and I can find it except in the coldest of times.  In the winter, the leaves are small and their clumps scattered.  Now the leaves are comparatively huge, some more than three times their winter versions.  And it’s present in most places I look — except where invasive weeds like Japanese knotweed has taken over.

Speaking of Japanese knotweed, it has now reached maturity and stands more than ten feet tall.  Its leaves so densely cover their stalks that I can’t see into the thicket of the stuff further than about a foot.  It doesn’t grow everywhere (yet), but where it does, there is almost nothing else growing where it stands.  In late summer, I have seen a bind weed growing in and over its top, but it’s not prolific.  Clumps of Japanese knotweed, tens of feet deep, grow in long hedges that parallel the trail for hundreds of feet.  I worry about it someday taking over the entire trailside, but it’s not close to doing that yet.

It may be my imagination, but it seems to me that there aren’t as many sticks around the trail as there used to be.  Poor Waldo is often reduced to picking up the tiniest of twigs to carry around.  Can it be that Waldo has been so efficient at stalking and herding the native sticks that he’s cleaned the place out?  I doubt it.  After all, he doesn’t move them somewhere else, he just carries them around for a while, then drops them at his feet.  It’s been some time since he grabbed one end of a long branch and dragged it down the trail, though.

All this points to something the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus said: “The only constant in life is change.”

And life goes on…

The English ivy tree is covered by more than English ivy.

Life in all its wonderous magic….

Life is pleasant.  Death is peaceful.  It’s the transition that’s troublesome.

-Isaac Asimov

The day is going to be a hot one, so Waldo and I start out on our walk early, just after dawn.  The sun is up, just a few fingers above the horizon.  The day beckons.

But not for everyone.

As Waldo and I move through Mother Nature, passing through the oaks, the maples, the black walnuts, the trees of heaven, the sumacs, the elms, the sassafras, the white pines and all else that is now so very green, my mind is somewhere else.  We are swaddled in a blanket of vibrant life with all its chirping, buzzing, swishing in the breeze, rustling in the leaves and effusing a gemish of wonderous odors that my poor olfactory organ can’t possibly sort out, but I’m not here.  I’m thinking about Lee, Phyllis’s husband, who has died.

I never met the man, but I know a little about what his last years were like, from what Phyllis has shared me.  He was 78 when he passed.  Phyllis has been involved with Lee for about the past two years, married for the past six months.  At the time of their meeting, she was seventy-three and he was three years older.  Both had been married twice before.  About three years ago, Lee’s last wife died of cancer.  Two weeks later, he was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer and was told he would live about another two or three years.  Lee didn’t want to live out his final years alone and looked for a companion.  Phyllis and Lee met each other on the internet and Lee was up front with Phyllis about his diagnosis and prognosis early on.  Lee’s oncologist told Phyllis that Lee would be fairly healthy up until about two months before his death and then he would quickly deteriorate.

From the first, the two of them were very happy.  They enjoyed the camaraderie and intimacy that couples share and the company that brightens the shadows of old-age loneliness.  There were some points of friction — Phyllis is physically active, Lee not so much.  Phyllis likes to travel, walk long distances, ride a bicycle and paddle board.  Lee liked to stay at home and cuddle on the couch.  Compromises were made, but Lee wasn’t in good enough shape to keep up with everything Phyllis wanted to do.  After frank and open discussions, Lee decided to give Phyllis the space to do what she felt she needed to do.  Phyllis cut back on her daily routine to spend more time with Lee on his terms.  Phyllis truly enjoyed cuddling on the couch and Lee, although disappointed at having to let Phyllis go off on her own, never punished her afterward when she returned to him.  Phyllis felt guilty at leaving Lee to pursue adventure, but enjoyed the time she spent with Lee.  It was a balance that worked.

Over a year and a half, Lee’s strength and energy slowly diminished and he was able to do less and less.  There were good days and bad days, but, gradually, it all too often became a problem for him to even walk the quarter mile from his house to his mailbox.  And for a long time, there would be days when he could walk a couple of miles with Phyllis and even went biking with her.  Buying electric bicycles helped somewhat, but, as the tomorrows crept at their petty pace, the days when Lee had the energy to do any of that became fewer and fewer.

Prostate cancer usually metastasizes to bone – which means that cancer cells are shed from the primary tumor in the prostate, then travel to bones.  All kinds of bones.  There, they become lodged and rapidly start reproducing.  In the process, the bone gets eaten away and becomes weak and brittle.  This also causes pain.  As time went on, Lee started experiencing pain in his right arm, then his left leg and his pelvis.  This also decreased his mobility and ability to get around.  Metastases to his skull behind his right ear made him dizzy and nauseous.  Radiation therapy slowed things down a little, for a little while, but it’s no cure.  As time went on, one problem would be ameliorated to just be followed by another and with quicker and quicker succession.  Pain became more and more a part of his everyday life.

Eventually, bones started breaking.  Lee’s right humerus was broken in two places and needed surgery.  He went into the hospital and within two weeks, he required surgery to his left femur for similar problems.  These surgeries required not just the placement of rods, but the bone was so damaged that cement was also required for stabilization.  For the last three months of his life, Lee was in and out of the hospital and in rehab, recovering from these surgeries.

Commensurate with all this, for about the past year, Lee became more and more uninterested in eating.  Over his last five months, he lost a good fifty pounds.  While recovering from the femur surgery, Lee became so disinterested in eating and drinking that he was given a choice.  He would either agree to a feeding tube going into his stomach or he would be put on hospice at home.  Lee decided to go on hospice and went home.  When he got home, he was in excruciating pain whenever he was moved.  He was given pain medication for comfort, but that was inadequate therapy and he suffered greatly.

Over the last three months of his life, he slept more and more.  In the end, he was awake only about four hours a day.  There were moments when he was lucid, but he became more and more confused as time went on.  He would talk about his previous wife as if she was still alive and sometimes just made no sense at all.  Eventually, he became unconscious and lay quietly in his bed, with Phyllis at his side, holding his hand.  His respirations became shallow and more infrequent, then one halting breath led to a long pause, followed by another, then no more.  He was gone.  He was home for about a week when he died.

Over my Emergency Career, I have been witness to a lot of death.  Death is an old friend who I’ve interacted with many times in many circumstances.  I’ve argued with the grim reaper and done my best to beat him back, loose his grip, dissuade his intent and send him on his way.  Sometimes I was successful, sometimes not.  In the end, I came to see him, not as the enemy, but as an inexorable force that is as natural as birth.  It wasn’t death that I disrespected, it was suffering.  Suffering, too, can be difficult to avoid, but by focusing on that, I wasn’t fighting the laws of nature, just negotiating with them to be kinder.

Lee’s last few years were a slow deterioration that accelerated to a breathtaking rush in the end.  He was so lucky to have found Phyllis.  She provided him with companionship, intimacy, caring, physical and emotional support, and just plain old humanity.  Even though he had other family, without Phyllis, he would have spent so very many of his last days suffering alone.  Phyllis was a godsend.

But the benefit of the relationship wasn’t Lee’s alone.  Phyllis also received the same gifts and had a few years of togetherness that many older people are bereft of, as they approach the end goal that is common to all of us.  In addition to the wonders of love she shared with Lee, she gained the magical gift of making a profound difference in another person’s life, just by being there, at his bedside as he died, lovingly holding his hand.  Loving kindness is the greatest gift there is in life and it is so simple in its execution, yet so profound in its impact.  And each and every one of us has the power to give it every day, every hour of every day and minute to minute.

The moment is calling to me.  Waldo is tugging at the leash, the magic of Mother Nature is tapping my shoulder, seeking my attention.  I’m still alive and creeping in my own petty pace toward the inevitable.  But, I have not yet been given an expiration date and, I believe, that is still some ways off.  Meanwhile, I’m not alone.  I have family, friends, Waldo and all the beauty and magic that surrounds me.

And that is so much more than enough.

…and in all its subtle depth.

COVID Garden.

Walking is a man’s best medicine.

-Hippocrates

Things have been a little too cool at sunrise for a shirtsleeve walk and a little too warm two and a half hours later, for a jacket walk, when we finish.  So, Waldo and I have been waiting until eightish or ninish AM to start our daily sojourn into the woods.  The sun is well up by then, but the shadows are still long.  They lay across the tarmac and grass in blurry blotches, as if the projector, the sun, that produces them were out of focus (it sort of is, due to the fact that it isn’t a pinpoint source of light and that causes the fuzziness).   Soon, it will be hot enough that we have to start before dawn – but not yet.

The Japanese knotweed now stands some eight to ten feet high.  I can’t tell exactly because the taller stuff is a few feet away from the trail where I can’t see the ground due to all the foliage.  Orange jewelweed is still close to the ground and doesn’t yet have its orange blooms.  The trees of heaven are not at full height and their serrated pinnate leaves still have a reddish tinge.  There are new-growth Norway maples, with large green leaves drooping from stalks that aren’t yet big enough to be called trunks, and some young sassafras treelets, with their dinosaur-footprint shaped leaves, growing close by the trail.  These low-growing plants are all packed close to the trail where, due to the gap made by the tarmac, sunlight can still reach them without being blocked by the canopies of the larger old-growth black walnut, red oak and birch trees.  Thirty feet off-trail, there isn’t as much brush at all.

As soon as we hit the trail, Waldo is off doing his business, then he goes off on a search for the perfect stick.  He waters a few bushes and weeds along the way and is soon lost in his own Waldo-world, doing his Waldo-thing.  He’s eager and happy, quite entertained by everything around him.

Within the first quarter-mile, we pass the Marlborough COVID Rock Garden.  It’s a patch of gravel set in the grass next to the trail with a sign that reads, “Take one, Leave one, Share one.”  It first appeared during the lockdown of 2020.  Sometimes when we pass by here, there are brightly painted palm-sized stones, colored like easter eggs.  Sometimes I see beautiful skillfully painted rocks covered in intricate patterns that must have taken some time and effort to produce.  Today, however, there’s nothing but gravel.  All the good stuff must already be taken or shared.

Just before the half-mile mark is the COVID Community Garden.  Its modest beginnings date to the beginning of the lockdown and preceded the rock garden by a few months.  There is a couple that comes by and cares for the patch of ground on which it sits and have added to and improved it over the years.  There are planters and pinwheels and gnomes and photocell-powered lights and benches to sit on and carved and painted pieces of wood.  Flowers transferred from greenhouses and colorful pieces of sculpture are there as well.  People, particularly kids, walking along the trail will often pause and enjoy the ambience.

Shortly after the one-mile marker is a large open field, a landfill, that runs down a gentle slope to the Fort Meadow Reservoir.  Homes on the far side of the reservoir sit close to the water’s edge with docks that stick out into the lake.  There aren’t many boats out there, but I have seen a rowboat or two, bearing fishermen with lines out.  Swans and ducks are often in the lake as well.

Between the 1.5 and 2-mile marker is another field, quite large.  This is the athletic field belonging to the Assebet Valley Regional Technical High School.  Often when we pass, there are students out there, throwing a discus, a shot, or a javelin, or playing lacrosse or soccer.  It’s fenced in and I’ve often lusted for it as a place I could take Waldo, let him off leash and watch him run to his heart’s content.  Unfortunately, the fence bears a sign that says, “No Trespassing.  Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”  Sigh.

At the 2-mile marker is a brand new, huge, not yet completed, luxury retirement home.  A little more than half a mile after that is an old stone bridge abutment and an elderly housing building that was built three years ago.  Some of the people we pass, as Waldo and I walk along, live there.  There must be a lot of money in retirement homes.

Just before the three-mile marker is the English ivy tree.  That plant is the hardiest I’ve seen.  Its green leaves are out and photosynthesizing in snow and -32℉ weather and still doing it’s green thing in 90℉ weather that’s too hot for me to do my thing and certainly too hot for Waldo and his sable birthday suit.

Just after the three-mile marker is a large rock that marks where we turn around and head back home.  The trail continues on into Hudson, but it’s more urban and less interesting.  Besides, six miles is plenty for a daily jaunt and even Waldo is quite satisfied after we’re done.

That’s a brief rundown of our daily walk, for the past four and a half years.

It’s our own little patch of Mother Nature that Waldo and I look forward to visiting nearly every day.

Fort Meadow Reservoir and a lot of green.

Shadows fall long this time of day.

An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.

-Henry David Thoreau

The days have cooled off, for a little while, with temps in the low to high fifties range.  We’ve started walking in the morning, beginning around 8 AM, regardless of what the temperature is.  It’s always cool enough in the morning, but not too cool.  The shadows run from east to west across the tarmac, instead of west to east, as they do in the afternoon, long when we start, shorter when we return to the car.  It may be all in my head, but the morning light seems somehow different than the afternoon.  It seems bluer, cooler and gentler.  The afternoon light always feels more orange, hotter and harsher.  There is a definite difference in the wildlife – birds are more vocal, squirrels more playful and even the leaves appear greener and more eager to welcome the sunlight.

Waldo is back to normal, walking along at both ends of the leash, without laying down, nor even searching for shade.  He’s always eager to get up and get going in the morning.  True, he has business to do and, after a night’s sleep, probably always has an urgent need to take care of that need.  But, after he’s done, he romps and pounces, greeting the day with a playful vengeance.  Must be a morning person.

I, on the other hand, have always been a night-owl.  Even today, with no deadlines or legitimate requirement to do so, find myself with a second wind that keeps me up until close to midnight.  I am seldom eager to get out of bed in the morning, being more interested in rolling over and putting the day on snooze for a bit.  But, over the years when I had no choice, I learned that ignoring the urge to doze and just getting my ass out of bed when I wake up, makes it easier to get the day going.  Once on the rail-trail, I find it somehow more enjoyable to walk in the morning rather than later.

I’m not alone in this either.  Waldo and I meet several people this morning whom we usually pass when we walk in the afternoon.  Sometimes, we all walk in the morning to beat the heat later in the day, but some are there earlier on the cooler days when that isn’t so necessary.  Some are on bikes or rollerblades, and some are joggers.  I have never asked, but maybe some fit their nature-time around a work schedule and this is just what they have available.  There are others who we haven’t seen in a while because they always come out early.  They are, of course, morning people.

Some people we pass seem to be goal-oriented and are pushing themselves through their trek.  There is a teenager on roller skates, accompanied by a man on a bicycle, who goes rapidly back and forth down the trail as if he’s in training for some athletic purpose.  There are joggers who run faster than I ever was able to, when I could do that kind of thing, and there are bikers who speed along the trail, all spandexed up, with helmets and specialized shoes, on high-tech mounts obviously designed for racing.  I, personally, don’t think it’s safe to do that on a trail that is multipurpose and includes not only dogs, but old people with walkers, young kids who aren’t paying attention and babies in strollers, not to mention the squirrels and rabbits, foxes and even, rarely, a young deer, that on occasion dash across the path.  I can only hope that all those type As out there sometimes come out here to just enjoy the forest and all it has to offer – at any time of day.

This morning, I see the forest has passed a milestone.  The oak trees, initially a pale pea-green, have morphed into something darker and are becoming greener than the conifers.  They have shed their pollen and spindly stamens in one great flush.  Over a period of about three days, a blanket of green dust and ropy stems fell over the ground, covering cars and anything else beneath their canopies.  The tarmac turns that same pea green the branches were sporting, before they turned emerald, and windshields and their wipers are clogged with yellow fuzzy stems.  Pity the poor pollen-allergic asthmatic who has to endure this barrage.

Things are getting so much greener.  Weeds, like the Japanese knotweed that now stand eight feet or more high, bushes and young trees are all leafed out and obscure the line-of-sight into the forest after more than about thirty feet.  Things aren’t yet as verdant as they’re going to get, but they’re well on their way.

And mornings are such a beautiful time of day to witness it.

Shadows disappear when the sun goes behind a cloud.

Wide open spaces next to backyards.

It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.

-Yogi Berra

I found a 4.7-mile-long rail-trail that runs through Leominster and Fitchburg, MA.   Leominster is about 20 miles or so northwest from Marlborough and the trail is just long enough for a good roundtrip walk.  The high temperature is forecast to be 70℉, so I feel comfortable starting at about noon.  Waldo and I meet Christine at the railhead in Leominster, where we leave our cars, and we head out.  I check my weather app as we start, and it’s 72℉.  I figure that as long as it stays below about 76℉, we’ll be okay.   If Waldo gets hot, we’ll just have to stop and wait for him to cool off in the shade here and there.

Leominster is a city of around 45,000 people, in the 2020 census, that was founded in 1653, incorporated in 1740.  During the civil war, it was a major contributor to the underground railroad. Originally a farming community, it became a manufacturing center after the arrival of the railroad. By the 1850s, paper mills, piano makers and comb manufacturers were doing business there.  The comb manufacturing industry was a big part of its industry with some 146 employees working in 24 different factories.  By the early 1930s, Foster Grant (yes, the sunglasses guy) brought plastic injection mold manufacturing to Leominster and the city soon became known as “Pioneer Plastics City.”  It’s also the home of Tupperware, founded in 1938 by Earl Tupper.

Leominster is  renown as the birthplace of Johnny Appleseed, whose real name was John  Chapman.  Born in 1774, he may be America’s first conservationist.  He was also a vegetarian.  When he was 18, he and his brother wandered west, creating a number of fenced orchards.  Pear or apple orchards were required by law to uphold land claims in many places and Johnny’s orchards became popular places for people to settle as the population moved westward.  At the time of his death, he owned some 1,200 acres of land.

Settled in 1730, Fitchburg is situated on the Nashua River.  It was a 19^th century industrial center and used the river to power large mills making machines, tools, clothing, paper and firearms.  The 2020 census lists a population of around 42,000.  One of its claims to fame is that it was the home of Hiram Maxim, the inventor of the first self-powered machine gun.

The rail-trail starts in an small town urban area surrounded by streets and small businesses.  There are few trees, little shade and the sun is out, so it becomes quite warm as we walk along.  Oh, there are oaks and maples and the same bushes as along our rail-trail, just not as many and placed further back from the path.  As we walk along, we pass by backyards of one and two story buildings and even a ballpark, where little leaguers are playing baseball, watched by their families.  Before too long, we come across the Fitchburg Airport, someplace I’ve landed in my flying days, when the weather became too dense to make it back to the home airport.  After that, we parallel the North Nashua River and walk next to the Fitchburg Commuter Rail next to it.  Fitchburg is the last station on that line.  The train carries passengers to and from Boston several times a day and three pass us as we walk along.  We end up on narrow streets and alleyways in a rundown part of town, where we turn around and head back.

By this time, it has gotten quite hot.  I check my weather app and it reports a temperature of 76℉.  A lot hotter than the 70℉ first forecast!  I pull out Waldo’s water bottles and give him as much as he wants to drink and we carry on.  We don’t go more than a half mile before Waldo searches out shade next to a retaining wall and lays down.  Christine and I give him a few minutes to cool off and then verbally encourage him to carry on.  He’ll have none of it, though, and just looks up at us as if to say, “Uh-uh, I think I’ll just stay here a bit.”  I check the app – it says the temp is now 78℉.  Christine and I talk about it and we decide that Waldo and I will stay where we are and Cristine will walk back to the cars, about 4 miles, then come pick us up.  We could have waited a bit longer and Waldo would have continued on, but it’s hot, the sun is out, there’s little breeze and Waldo would probably need to rest up again before not too long.  Christine disappears around the next bend in the trail and Waldo and I wait.

Waldo lies on his side and seems to fall asleep.  Then, after about five minutes of that, he’s up and sniffing around.  He’s fine, just hot.  He and I find a nice big tree to rest under, with lots of shade, and after a little more than an hour, Christine comes and we’re on our way home.

The trail was not my favorite, it being so urban and all.  I much prefer tall trees with lots of shade and a forest milieu.  But I’m glad we walked it.

That’s one more part of Massachusetts the three of us can put on our been-there, done-that list.

This is what a spent Waldo in the shade looks like…

On the railroad bed.

Jobs fill your pockets but adventures fill your soul.

-Jaime Lynn Beatty

I found a 4.9-mile piece of the Mass Central Rail Trail that runs from West Boylston to Holden.  Today, Christine joins us for a round trip distance of 9.8 miles (we decided to do the round trip so we could use it for our daily 6-mile self-imposed obligation).  We start at about noon, in West Boylston, and head west, going upriver along the Quinapoxet River.  The day is cool, but warm enough for shirtsleeves, and the weather dry.  The path is wide, compacted and solid, but unpaved.  It starts where the river empties into the Wachusett Reservoir, just north of Worcester, and gently winds through stands of white pine that have been there for around a hundred years.

About a mile from the trailhead, there’s a place where the Springdale Woolen Mill once stood.  At one time, raw wool was processed there and then sent on by rail.  All that’s there now are some blocks of stone that made up its foundation.  What’s left is slowly being swallowed by the surrounding forest as it reclaims its own.  It seems to be an odd place to have a mill, in the middle of a forest miles from anywhere, but, I guess, all kinds of industry sprang up alongside rivers whose flows were a dependable source of power.  The Quinapoxet isn’t a big river, but big enough, I guess.  The mill opened in 1864 and, in 1905, the State of Massachusetts bought the mill and razed it to ensure the water quality of the Wachusett Reservoir.  The reservoir’s dam is in Clinton, Mass and the reservoir was finished in 1905.  It was first filled in 1908 and serves, even today, as a major source of water (along with the larger Quabbin Reservoir, further west) for Boston and its surrounding towns.

Not long after we pass the mill, we cross under Interstate 190 that runs south from Leominster to Worcester.  The highway is very high above us, supported on a huge cement trestle.  This trail is sort of an item on my bucket list.  I’ve spent many trips traveling to Worcester, looking down from on high, and thinking this would be a nice trail to walk.  It seemed sheltered and isolated, shaded and friendly.  It has proven to be all that and more.

All along both sides of this part of the trail are towering white pines, none of which is older than about 100 years (based on their diameter).  Oaks and maples stand further in the surrounding forest, but the rail-trail is swathed in pine.  The resulting ambience is that of an old European forest, like the Black Forest (Schwarzwald) of southern Germany, with lots of shade.  The river water flows briskly over rocks in its bed, providing a background symphony of white noise that is calming and soothing.  The atmosphere is peaceful and begs for a contented sigh.

Waldo enjoys the walk with its plentiful supply of sticks and many other people to say hello to.  This must be a popular trail for people from Worchester – we pass about twenty or so.  They provide Waldo with congenial pets and pats and give Christine and me smiles and kind words of greeting.  As we walk along, we idly converse about subjects so important that I can’t now, as I write this, remember much of their gist.  The perfect kind of conversations to have while walking with Waldo.  Some of the places our minds wander into are explaining why the trees are segregated as they are.  Christine believes the railroad bed must have, at one time, been open space.  Then, as they are wont to do, the pines moved in and, eventually, they’ll be replaced by the local brand of deciduous trees, including maples and oaks.  Real Earth moving, portentous stuff like that.

After a couple of miles, the trail takes a sharp 135 degree turn to the right and begins a serpentine climb over a ridge.  Clearly, we’re off the railroad bed as no train could possibly make it around these turns.  The trail remains broad enough to allow for a car and the steepness of the climb, although it does slow us down a bit, isn’t taxing.  Over the top of the ridge, the path continues in much the same way down to State Route 31, where it ends.  We turn around and head back the way we came, sorry that there’s no more to explore, but glad we still have the walk back to enjoy.  This is a walk we would very much like to repeat sometime.

But there are so many paths to venture down…

Off the railroad bed, downhill.