Walking with Waldo

It’s still fairly dark out as we start.

Say what you will about aging, it’s still the only way to have old friends.

-Robert Breault

Today, Waldo and I had a predawn start to our walk.  We woke up at 4 AM, had a quick breakfast, then we were out the door and in the car.  Phyllis is meeting us in the Lotus Blossom restaurant parking lot at about 5:30 AM, so we can finish by 8, when the temperature is forecast to be 73℉.  Waldo and I got to the parking lot a little early and we’re outside, waiting for Phyllis to drive up.  It’s still dark out and there is next to no traffic.  I don’t know how he knows, but Waldo is out on the sidewalk, wagging his butt, as Phyllis’s headlights approach down the street.  As soon as she parks, he greets her with a torrent of ardent sniffs and licks, then, in true border-collie fashion, walks away with a been-there-done-that attitude.  The sun isn’t scheduled to rise until 5:55, so there’s just a hint of a pastel peach dawn to the east, and the suggestion of a pale blue sky above us, as we start out on the Mass Central Rail Trail.

It’s been a while since we’ve been on the Mass Central Rail Trail, or the Bruce Freeman Trail.  This piece of the MCRT is one that is not yet quite finished.  Construction has been going on for the past couple of years and we have walked it before, even though it wasn’t paved.  Now, it has a first coat of tarmac, but there’s more work to be done.  Even so, the going is easy and we quickly walk the 0.2 mile, or so, distance to the intersection with the Bruce Freeman Trail.  The BFT was finished and fully opened this spring and we want to see what it’s like now that it’s, finally done.

The intersection of the two trails has a small roundabout, with bare ground in the middle.  There used to be a small train station just to the northwest of the intersection, but that is now long gone.  Off in the weeds, to the northeast of the roundabout, is the “X” section of rails that was the intersection of the two railroads.  The MCRT runs, more or less, east-west from Boston to Northampton, Mass.  The BFT runs from Framingham, to our south, north to Lowell, MA.  We turn right and head north, with the idea of seeing what the finished trail is like.

As we walk along, the world turns lighter and Mother Nature’s colors become more vibrant.  We are soon in thick forest, surrounded by old-growth stands of maple, oak and white pine.  After a good half-hour, the sun finally broaches the horizon and we are bathed in the long shadows of early morning.  Emmy birds are out and about and I carry on a short conversation with one.  I don’t hear any cardinal-song, but I know cardinals are out in the foliage somewhere; they’re just not talking right now.  Waldo is out front at the end of the leash and not continuously stopping to look behind us as he is wont to do when there are bikes around.  There are bikes out here, I think he’s just excited to be on a walk in a place different from our usual haunt and, while not ignoring them, he’s too interested in the new countryside to fret about them.

The trail itself is different from the last time we were here.  The fences that attempted (and failed) to block adventurous people from exploring the unfinished trail are gone.  The tarmac is thicker and more solid, there are rail fences on the sides, here and there, and there are granite posts, every half-mile or so.  The posts display the history of the place.  Some describe how the railroad was built.  Others note how the railroad was run, talking about signal lights and whistle posts.  There is a large sign showing a map of the MCRT and BFT, along with some historical facts of the town of Sudbury.  The icing has been put on the cake from the last time we were here.

Phyllis is leaving on an 8-week trip to five different countries in Africa in less than two weeks.  We talk a lot about her plans and my past experiences there.  Among the countries she’s visiting are Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Zimbabwe and South Africa.  This will be the first time she’s been to the second largest continent in the world and she’s quite excited.  Africa is someplace she’s wanted to visit for a good part of her life.  This is her fourth attempt to scratch that itch – the other trips had to be canceled before they could become reality, for various reasons.  It would take an act of God to stop her this time.  She’s running out of time, you know.

All too soon, we turn around and head back to the Lotus Blossom.  It’s been a really nice 6-mile walk and we successfully beat the heat.  Waldo got to sniff new smells and Phyllis and I got to reconnect and experience the finished BFT.  She won’t be back until toward the end of October, but by then, things will be cooler and we’ll be able to take longer walks.

And there’ll be plenty of time for her tell me about her African adventures.

It’s really nice to be walking with Phyllis again.

The grounds where we live provide Waldo and me some great places to walk.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.

-Helen Keller

Waldo and I woke at 6 AM this morning.  Every night, I look at the forecast and pick the latest time we can leave the next day for our walk and finish before it gets hotter than about 74℉.  We need a three-hour window to get up, get dressed and finish our six miles, and this summer, that’s meant getting up pretty early.  Lately, we’ve been able get out of bed as late as 7 AM, but today, it’s going to be a bit hotter a bit earlier, so we had to get up at 6.  4 AM sucks, but 6 isn’t too bad.  Usually.  This morning, I got up and put on my socks, so it was for real.

I was feeling a bit tired, but nothing abnormal for that time of day.  I was all set, except for putting on my boots, to head out the door.  Waldo was lying on the floor, waiting patiently for me to get my act together.  Suddenly, I felt a little sleepier than normal.  That’s very unusual for me.  Once the juices get flowing, I’m good to go.  But I had the urge to nap, not walk.  The forecast says the next few days are going to be 4 AM walks, or none at all, but, even so, I caved and decided to put off our trek for another day.  Still, the dog has got to get out and do his business, so out we went.  The plan morphed into doing our half-mile poop and pee loop, then come back home, have some breakfast, then hit the recliner for a couple-hour nap.

Once outdoors, I heard an Emmy bird, hiding somewhere in the foliage in her catbird seat.  We talked a bit, as Waldo lifted his leg on the bushes, then, having said whatever it was that needed saying, we moved on.  I can speak Emmy bird well enough that I can sometimes induce one to flit down to a perch near me, or land on the ground not far away.   Once seeing that I wear a very peculiar set of feathers, and I have a companion who is a… predator, they take then off and go back into hiding.  However, I don’t understand the language at all and I have no idea what’s being said.  This morning, the bird does not show itself and, after exchanging a few bon mots, we move on toward the pooping grounds.

The other day, while we were out on the rail trail, a gorgeous red cardinal flew right in front of me, across our path.  I pulled out my phone and searched for an audio of cardinal birdsong.  Hearing that, I listened carefully to the woods.  It wasn’t long before I heard a cardinal off in the bushes, making the same song.  It’s a whistle, sliding from a low to high tone, repeated three or four times.  I did my best to imitate it and the bird answered.  This morning, when I heard cardinal-speak, I answered as best I could.  Like the Emmy bird, the cardinal, who I couldn’t see, answered and we spoke for awhile.  About something or other.  Like is often the case with human interactions, what was said was not so important as the expression of the desire to interact.

Moving on, Waldo and I rounded the corner of a building and saw an elderly woman sitting on the ground, just outside the back door to the building, with her legs folded under her.  I asked if she was okay and she said she tripped on the bottom step and couldn’t get up.  She said that her wrists were a bit sore, especially the right, but otherwise, she was fine.  I told her I understood completely and that I made it a practice to do my best not to go down without a solid plan about how I would get back up.  But, hey, shit happens.

Obviously, I needed to help her get up.  But first, I needed to figure out what I was going to do with Waldo.  I told him to stay, locked the retractable reel of his leash so it wouldn’t retract and set the reel on the ground.  I was pretty sure that if Waldo did wander off, he wouldn’t go far.  As a puppy, that was a worry.  These days, not so much.

There was no one else around, so, with the woman’s consent (I did mention that I am a retired doctor, she said she is a retired nurse), I got behind her, put my hands under her armpits and lifted.  She was a short woman, but large.  We got her onto her knees, but I couldn’t lift her all the way up without changing my position.  So, I leaned over some more, changed my grip by running my arms around her upper chest and, grasping my hands together, I tried again.  Lifting and leaning backward, doing my best not to join her on the ground, I finally got her onto her feet.  She was good to go and refused further help.  On the way to church when she fell, she continued on and went around the corner of building.

I turned to look at Waldo.  The leash reel had not moved an inch.  Anyone else watching might have been amused seeing two old farts wrestling around on the ground, but not Waldo.  During the whole episode, he just stood there, watching.  He gave me a “Are you done?” look and, as I picked up my end of the leash and unlocked the reel, he continued on his way as if this kind of thing happens all the time.  What a great companion.

You see, adventure is out there, even right next to home on a short half-mile jaunt around the neighborhood.

You just have to be open to it.

There’s even some funky foliage, like this tree that looks like a crucifix.

Waldo doesn’t spend much time ruminating, as far as I can tell.

There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want.

-Bill Waterson

It feels so good to be out walking in 60℉ weather.  Finally, Waldo and I can put in our 6 miles and finish while the temperature is still in the low 70s.  Later on in the day, it’s in the low 80s, but by then, we’re inside, chillaxin’.

Apparently, there are quite a few others who feel the same way, because we are not alone.  Many of the people and dogs we meet are fellow rail-trail denizens who we are used to meeting later on in the day when things are a bit cooler.  That’s not universal – not everyone makes an effort to beat the heat.  I’ve driven by the trail when the temps are in the low 90s and seen intrepid beshorted and beteeshirted people out here walking the tarmac.  It would be my guess, though, that they’re not going six miles.  The wisdom is that people can’t spend very long working in temperatures higher than 90℉.  At those temps, humans need to rest and cool down a bit or they get heat stroke.  It makes me wonder how southern plantation slaves survived in the cotton fields.

Nothing much has changed since the last blog, except the Canadian geese are nowhere to be seen.  But high summer is like that.  Like midwinter, things are changing, but only slowly — every day is very much like every other day.  In summer, the trees are fully foliated, the weeds are tall and densely packed and the world is soaked in green.  That only changes at the pace that grass grows.  In the winter, day after day after day, the trees remain barren, the ground is covered in snow and ice and the landscape is painted in dull shades of gray.  Oh, there are days, in the summer, when it rains, times when the wind blows in a gale, and weeks of the sun bludgeoning heat down mercilessly.  And in the winter, there are periods of frigid, icy temperatures that would freeze the soul and snow storms that bury the world in a thick icy blanket.  But in both cases, all that is just background noise to the slowly evolving seasons

In the spring and fall, things can change noticeably from one day to the next.  In just a few days, you can see the vernal leaves on the trees spring forth from tiny buds to light green babies, then to jade-colored, mature fully photosynthesizing organs.  Six months or so later, in the fall, you can see those same leaves, from day to day, give up their verdure in beautiful patterns of red and yellow, then end up as a soft crunchy carpet covering the ground everywhere.  In the spring, I like to follow the different rates of maturation of the different plants – which ones are the first and last to be fully leafed out, for example.  In the fall, it’s interesting to watch the growing patterns of color amid the still green trees and think about the causes.  Things change with a rapidity that makes it easy to notice and follow.

It occurs to me that my life is like that.  For months on end, every day was very much like every other day.  I would wake up every morning, roll out of bed and then go about the business of living.  Then, sometimes after many years, something would change.  I would start school, or get a new job, or get married, buy a new house, or have children.  The world would be a different kind of place for a while, then routine would set in, along with a certain amount of monotony.  Finally, the kids grow up, they have their own lives, the empty house is sold and I retire.  After that, like midsummer and winter, very little changes.  Oh, I go on trips and write books that get published, enjoy watching my kids and grandkids lives taking form and shape, but most of my life is set.  There no more grand schemes of career planning, no more tall hurdles to leap over.

It’s a quiet time of life, retirement.  A lot of time is spent on maintenance, just taking care of what’s required to live in twentieth-century America.  The older you get, the more that means medical appointments for this and that minor inconvenience of having a body that is slowly wearing out.  Everything else has a tendency to be entertainment.  Stuff like traveling, writing and even exploring.  It’s just a way of filling what time you have left.

I don’t find that at all depressing.  It’s just quiet.  Like going for a walk with Waldo on the rail trail.  The frenetic energy of a working life is gone, but life is still fulfilling.  It’s full of love, caring and sharing.  And I have plenty of time to revel in the magic of life in all of its countless facets.

And wonder about all that is.

I do think he wonders what I’m doing, though.

Uprooted common burdock.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born.  The odd uneven time.

-Sylvia Plath

It finally got cool enough that Waldo and I can go walking without getting up at 4 AM.  We did get out of bed at 6, which is still plenty early in my estimation, but at least the sun was up.  The temperature is a nice 60℉ and it’s a bit muggy.  There’s a light breeze, but even so, the air is hazy due to smoke from wildfires in Canada.  I can’t smell the smoke, like I have in the past, but I can definitely see it.

The common burdock is putting up flowers and tiny nascent burr balls on 4-foot-high stalks.  As I’ve blogged previously, I’m at war with the stuff.  In the fall, these things turn into small maces whose business ends assault Waldo’s fur and my peace of mind.  Once in his fur, the damn things are really hard to extract and they come in bunches of 6 to 10.  And they’re out there, threatening to attack, for weeks.  Last year, I had enough and I uprooted every one I could find.  This year, I’m starting early.  As I walk along, I look for those stalks (not all burdock plants have them).  When I find one, I grab it, near where it comes out of the ground, with both hands, and lean back with all my weight.  If I can’t get it out, I smash it down next to the ground and try again the next day.  So far this year, the score is Byron — 6, Waldo’s fur – 0, and burdock – 0.  This morning, I pulled out the last one I could find.  So far.

The presence of the burdock stalks is only one sign that summer is past its midpoint.  The sun is rising noticeably later and setting earlier.  Acorns and black walnut fruits are appearing on the ground.  The Japanese knotweed is leaving its tiny, not so tenacious, burrs in Waldo’s fur (for reasons I don’t understand, he likes to walk under whatever weeds are out there, picking up bits of flowers, sticks, burrs and probably ticks).  The grass on the new park above Fort Meadow Reservoir is green and long (it has even been mowed once).  The Emmy birds have not migrated south yet, but they aren’t nearly as vociferous as they were in the spring and early summer.

As we pass the athletic field belonging to the Assebet Valley Regional Vocational Technical High School, I notice two Canadian geese lounging on the manicured lawn.  Now that is really odd.  It can’t be a sign of a waning summer, geese don’t migrate south until late September into October.  As I write this, it’s still early August.  These guys should be up in Northern Canada making little baby goslings, not down here.  I wonder what kind of insult humanity has perpetrated on Mother Nature that made these geese wander so far south so soon.  I can’t imagine they’re on their way to their winter nesting grounds in the southern US and northern Mexico.  It’s still too damn hot.  Maybe they’re escaping the wildfires that are raging up in Canada right now?

The bugs this year haven’t been all that bad.  In the past, on a day like this, I have been beset by intrusive mosquitoes, intent on doing a little blood-letting.   There are some gnats that buzz about, making themselves a nuisance, but no mosquitoes.  It’s been wet enough that there are ponds, pools and puddles on both sides of the trail that can spawn a plethora of the little monsters, yet there are none.  Their absence can’t be due to summer nearing middle age, it’s still way too early for the buggers to pack it in for the year; something else must be going on.  Eastern Equine Encephalitis was detected here in the spring and they sprayed for mosquitoes back then to get that under control, maybe it was more effective than I could have hoped.

Waldo has been a bit off his feed for the past month or so.  I’m not sure why, but I’m thinking it’s because of the heat.  There have been days when he hasn’t eaten breakfast until midafternoon.  That isn’t like him.  He’s a very good eater.  I’m thinking it might be the heat because, now that it’s a bit cooler, he’s eating better.  At it’s worst, I could always prime the puppy by putting a treat on top pf his food to get him started.  He then eats the whole bowl full of kibble.  So, I’m not that worried about him.  Maybe his eating better is just another sign that summer is past its prime.

There are definite signs that summer is on its way out and some signs that may be unrelated.  Either way, I enjoy wondering about how things change and evolve over time.  Soon, I’m hoping, it’ll be cool enough that Waldo and I can once again wander further afield and accomplish some of the goals I have for us.  Notably, I want to finish the Mass Central Rail Trail and start the Mid State Trail.  It’s just not possible now, in this heat.  Then, before too long, it’ll be freezing outside.

And we’ll be wishing for just a bit of warmth.

The enemy.

The trail is full of life.

There is an opposite to déjà vu.  They call it jamais vu.  It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first.  Everybody is always a stranger.  Nothing is ever familiar.

-Chuck Palahniuk

It’s been over six years that Waldo and I have been out here walking on the Assabet River Rail Trail.  We have tread on this tarmac nearly daily, thousands of times (no exaggeration).  The cumulative distance we’ve walked here is close to 14,000 miles, six miles at a time.  That’s roughly 4.5 trips from Boston to LA, more than half of the distance around the Earth at the equator.  I have worn out six pairs of boots, and God knows how many pairs of socks.   We know every bend in the trail, the names of most of the weeds by its side and have a personal relationship with a few of the trees.  Wherever we are, I can tell you how far it is to either end of the trail, in both miles and minutes (walking at our pace).  I carry on conversations with some of the birds and I’m even friendly with some of the rocks.  Waldo and I, we know this trail well.

To quote Geoffrey Chaucer (not, of course, an exact quote, as he wrote in old English), “familiarity breeds contempt.”   One might think that, after all those thousands of miles, walking on our trail has become monotonous.  That it has somehow become boring.  This is not so.  Oh, we both love going new places and seeing and smelling new things, but we don’t tire of our usual jaunt either.  As I’ve mentioned in these blogs before, things are always changing out here; no two walks are ever the same.  That change might be at the pace that grass grows, but it’s there, if you look for it.

More than that, even after all this time, there are still parts of nature that I haven’t noticed before.  There are weeds I haven’t speciated yet, insects I haven’t identified and birds I haven’t been able to connect with their song.  In addition, each tiny part of nature has its own story to tell.  Stories that are written in its zoology, botany and biochemistry.  Fascinating details like the geophysics of the rocks and the physics and astronomy of the changing seasons.  I’d never be able to grasp it all, even if I knew every branch and pebble.

William Blake wrote,

To see the world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

It’s not just the size of the palette that’s used to paint what is all around us that’s worth noticing.  Each stroke of the brush has in itself a near infinite variety of nuance, science and beauty.  An entire lifetime could be spent just paying attention to the smallest of details, the tiniest seed on the ground, and one would still never run out of new things to experience.

So, no, Waldo and I, despite how much we love to explore the unknown and look and smell in places we’ve never been, we never tire of being out here on our trail.  Waldo snuffs about and searches for that new delicate and finely finessed bit of pee-mail that he hasn’t sniffed before.  I look around and wonder at the variety and detail of life that surrounds us.

Today, Waldo is trotting down the trail, sniffing at fence posts and weeds.  He walks under the bushes and rolls in the grass.  He picks up sticks, carries them for a while, then leaves them wherever they fall.  He lifts his leg and leaves messages for whatever dog follows where we’ve been.  The entire time, his step is lively and his tail is wagging.  There is not the slightest suggestion of ennui in his behavior.

As for me, I’m noticing that the size and distribution of the plants alongside the trail is different this year.  There is the ever present hardy Japanese knotweed, as always, but there are also other plants that aren’t so numerous, or large – and some that aren’t as prevalent as in the past.  The moss and liverwort that was so healthy and plump in the past, is present, but short and flat.  Then there’s the common burdock.  That’s the stuff that has large burr balls, when it goes to seed, that get caught in Waldo’s fur with a grip that’s hard to break.  The wetter-than-normal spring must have provided conditions that caused it to spread like rabbits.  Last fall, I pulled up all the burdock I could find.  This year, there’s even more of it around.  I need to proactively uproot what I can before it goes to seed and ends up in Waldo’s coat.  Sigh.  That’s making me feel something, alright.

And it’s not a sense of monotony or boredom.

The trail is always beautiful.

Waldo in the king-cab, behind the front seats.

A bend in the road is not the end of the road… unless you fail to make the turn.

-Helen Keller

Road trip!

Christine loves peaches.  The peaches she loves the most are from Smithsburg, MD, 431 miles from where she lives in Holden, MA.  That’s about an eight-hour drive, each direction, including stops along the way.  She adores those peaches as much as I do flying aerobatics.  So, once a year, for I don’t remember how many years, we, including Waldo, pile into her pickup early in the morning and head south.   Waldo and I go along to keep her company and make sure she doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel.  We also go because I really love the sweet and juicy corn they grow at the orchard.  I’m not much of a peach fan, but, man, that corn they grow is good.  Christine offsets the cost of the trip by selling cases of peaches to friends and locals here in Massachusetts.  I usually come back with a couple dozen ears of corn for myself and family and the pickup is loaded with up to 70 cases of peaches.  With all those peaches, Christine has to call ahead a few days so they’re ready for us when we get there.  Today is the day we pick them up.

Waldo and I get up at 3:30 and stumble through our morning routine.  Waldo drinks a bowl of water, but doesn’t touch his kibble.  He’s been off his feed a bit recently.  I don’t know if it’s because of the heat, or there’s something in the water that he insists on drinking instead of the water I give him — something that upsets his stomach.  His preferred quaff comes from A/C condensation that drips onto his throne on the balcony (the idiot also prefers puddles of water along the trail to what’s in his water bottles).   So, I pack a couple of meals of kibble with his dinner bowl and two bottles of trekking water (the water I bring for Waldo when we go on our long walks).  I fix myself a quick and meager breakfast and we’re off.

We arrive at Christine’s house at 5:15 and we’re packed in the truck and gone by 5:30.  The truck is a king cab and Waldo lies down in the space behind the front seats.   He has plenty of space, but he’s not happy about being back there, instead of in the passenger seat next to me.  Christine knows that we need to stop every few hours so Waldo can get out, stretch his legs a bit, and empty any tanks that might need it.  So, the trip is planned around stopping for gas, then, later, grabbing some snacks at a grocery store along the way.  We do this by entering “nearby gas stations,” or “nearby grocery stores” in Google.  Technology has taken a lot of adventure out road trips, but it has made it more convenient, and it allows us to easily double task when we stop for Waldo.

Most of the trip is on freeways, something else I didn’t have as a kid.  Alas, no more Burma Shave signs planted next to endless two-lane roads.   It does make the trip a bit dull and monotonous, but it’s faster than the winding highways and byways we used to have to travel.  To fill in the time, Christine and I discuss politics and problems of the world.  We also google words that come up, from various sources, like “epicene,” (which means “effeminate”).  Waldo lies quietly in back with only an occasional stir to shift his position, oblivious and uncaring about our conversation up front.

When we stop, I open the back door and Waldo is eager to get out and go.  He’s pulling at the leash, trying to run he knows not where – it doesn’t matter, he’s just gotta go!   We explore the immediate environs and follow whatever patch of grass we can find amongst all the tarmac.  Waldo pees a bit and drinks some water, but refuses the food I offer him.  Then we’re back in the truck and on the road.

As we near our destination, we pass through the Catoctin Mountain National Recreation area, operated by the National Park Service.  The road is a two-lane winding byway with a gentle grade that runs through spectacularly green forested hills.  Every time I pass through it, I can’t help but feel it would be a really nice place to camp and hike.  Alas, we never have time to stop and explore because we need to get our load and head back home so we can compete our trip before midnight.  Maybe one day.

Once we get to the orchard, Waldo and I get out and walk amongst the trees and crops while the truck gets loaded.  It’s a bit muggy, but not terribly hot this year.  We walk around about a mile or so and then get back in the truck.  Waldo is still not eating.   We get on the road to home.

On the way back, it occurs to us that we really don’t know anything about Catoctin, so I google it.  Lo and behold, this is where Camp David, the presidential retreat, is!  It’s nowhere in sight and there aren’t any signs that point to it, probably for security reasons, but it’s right there on the map!  How many times have we passed through here and we never knew that!  It makes me wonder how much else about my immediate surroundings I’m oblivious to.

We stop at a Five Guys in Harrisburg and get hamburgers.  I put out Waldo’s kibble and he turns up his nose at it.   Literally.  He uses his nose to try to upend his dish.  But I know my doggy and I prime his eating pump by putting a French fry on top of his food (he loves French fries).  He empties his bowl and we’re back on our way.

We get back to Christine’s place just a few minutes after 9.  Waldo and I are back home by 10 PM.  16 ½ hours on the road, 18 ½ hours since we got up.  We are beat.  But Christine has her peaches and I have my corn.  This wasn’t our usual kind of trip, but Waldo and I did get out of our normal routine and saw, with both eyes and nose, parts of the world that are a bit different.

And variety is the spice of life.

Exploring the orchard and crops.

Eastern horizon over the Fort Meadow Reservoir…

When I woke up this morning, my girlfriend asked me, ‘Did you sleep good?’  I said, ‘No, I made a few mistakes.’

-Steven Wright

I am not now, have never been, nor is it likely that I will ever be, a morning person.  My genetically determined biorhythms just aren’t built that way.  Recent studies have shown that early risers have certain bits of Neanderthal DNA, bits I must not have.  I’m a dyed in the wool night owl and can’t help it.  The troglodytes among us might feel the urge to jump out of bed and catch the first rays of sunlight, but I’m more driven to stay up until after midnight to putter around, not because I can’t go to sleep, but because I’m not yet compelled to call it a day.

If push comes to shove, and there is a damn good reason for it, I can get up before dawn.  I’ve forced myself out of bed many times when I had to – because of work or I needed to fly early in the day, for example.  But I don’t like it.  I find the trick is to get up right away, as soon as the alarm goes off, and not give in to the impulse to have that argument with myself, that has only one possible outcome, about whether or not I really want to get up.  Once up, momentum can usually carry me on to do whatever it is that got me up.

Waldo isn’t much different.  But, then, there is no possibility that any of his ancestors were Neanderthals.  Yesterday, we tried to get up and failed.  I got so far as to swing my legs to dangle over the edge of the bed.  Waldo was startled by this and rose from his bed and left his crate.  He gave me a what’s-going-on kinda look, decided I was most certainly nuts, turned around and went back to bed, plopping down with an audible thud.  That was it for me.  I swung back around and lay down, blaming our lack of success on the dog.

But this can’t continue.  It’s too damned hot out there during most of the day, but not all day long.  It’s coolest just before, to just after, the sun rises.  After that short window of opportunity, it’s just too sweltering to be out walking six miles.  So, today, at 4 Am, when the alarm went off, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of socks.  Waldo raised his head, looked at me and, once he saw the socks, knew this was the real deal.  He ever so slowly rose and slunk to the bedroom door where he lay down waited for me.  Once I stood, my biological juices were flowing well enough that all systems were in the green and I was good to go.  Shortly thereafter, I was dressed and we were out the door.

It was dark as we started out.  Not black as the dark side of the moon, but dim enough that it was hard to see without artificial sources of light.  The sky above us was a uniform dark turquoise from the pending dawn, but down on the ground, everything was in various pale shades of gray.  The local birds and squirrels were quiet and not yet stirring to begin their day.  The temperature was 72℉, as it would remain throughout our walk, but man, it was humid.  Within a half-mile the exposed parts of my skin were covered in a thick sheen of sweat and my shirt was soaked with the stuff.  Waldo’s tongue was dangling from his jaws and whipping about as he panted down the trail.

To watch him go, you’d think Waldo had a full night of sleep, instead of only four hours.  That’s how he’s built.  It’s either full speed ahead, or crash and burn (but not for long).  I’m doing well too, as, from prior experience, I knew I would be.  Drowsiness still lingered at the edges of my awareness, but I didn’t need to exert any effort to keep it there.  My body, old as it is, was plugging along without complaint, functioning as it was designed to.  No creaks or grinds, rattles or thuds.

When we passed the Fort Meadow Reservoir and the new park (whose lawn is now green with grass), there was a pastel peach-colored sky off to the east just above the horizon.  A few minutes later, as we continued on, the sun was fully up, but still low in the sky and blissfully hidden behind the trees that line the trail.  Long early morning shadows were cast across our path that remained for the rest of our trek.  When we finished, it was 7 AM and the day was just beginning.

You know, I think I like an early morning walk better that than going after sunset.  The colors of first light are golden, compared to the oranges of last light.  Mother Nature is just waking, and doing so with a growing, cheerful lilt, instead of settling in with a slowly softening quiet.  But it is easier to get to the trail at night than it is before the sun comes up.

Once again at home, Waldo sucked down a bowl full of water, then fell onto his side and lay there, recuperating.  I got my own tall glass of refrigerator-cooled water and retired to my recliner.  A long, well-earned and welcome nap was now in order.

When indulged in, delayed gratification can be sweet.

… On the trail 40 minutes later.

Oh, how we miss being out here…

To be human is to have a collection of memories that tells you who you are and how you got there.

-Rosecrans Baldwin

We had a respite from the heat and humidity for about three days, with temps in the very lovely high 60s, and then it all came back as if the cooler days were meant as a prank.  This entire past week has been untrekable.  Waldo and I have had to stick to our local environs.  We could have shortened our walks on the rail trail, even in the high heat, limited them to a mile or so.  But it’s been so bad that even after taking Waldo for a fifteen-minute, half-mile poop and pee, I’ve soaked my shirt in sweat.  Waldo romps around like it doesn’t bother him, but when we get back to the apartment, he crashes on the floor, panting like a steam locomotive climbing Mount Everest, with his tongue lolled all the way out.  Only after he recovers a bit does he get up and drink water.

All this heat is causing me to think some more about that trip to Agra India I mentioned in the last blog.  I was twelve and with my family as we traveled to Ethiopia, where we would live for 18 months.  The plan was to go by way of the orient and return through Europe.  We left the US from San Francisco, stopped at Honolulu, then Tokyo and Bangkok before we flew into Delhi.  For a twelve-year old, the culture shock was stimulating and I developed a yen for adventure that lingers on today.  Each day, I was a stranger exploring a strange land.  And it has left an impression on me that cannot be erased, even if I wanted it to.

Sometimes, what I witnessed was shocking and life-altering.  I remember, on that drive from Delhi to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal, seeing people so poor that they slept in the drainage ditch alongside the road with nothing more for shelter than a large leaf of some sort.  At twelve years old, that wasn’t something I could quickly assimilate and it left a lasting impression.  Other things were not so confounding, but left a mark just the same.

As we drove the many hours to our destination, our driver asked us if we knew where the expression okay came from.  It turns out, okay is universally understood and used in most, if not all, cultures.  We said we didn’t and he explained that he heard that it came from an American president who was poorly educated.  When bills came across his desk for his signature, he didn’t want to reveal his ignorance, so, instead of writing “all correct”, which he didn’t know how to spell, he abbreviated it, O.K., for “Oll Korrect.”

I suppose the driver meant it as a joke, but still, some sixty-four years later, I remember it and was curious enough about the origins of okay to Google it.  It turns out that the driver was correct, up to a point.  The most accepted theory of where okay came from is from Boston, Massachusetts, of all places, in the late 1830s.  It turns out that it was a fad, at that time, to playfully misspell phrases like “oll korrect.”  This was then abbreviated O.K. and later spelled phonetically as “okay.”  There is a record of its use in print in the Boston Morning Post on March 23, 1839.  The meme reached national prominence during the 1840 presidential campaign of Martin Van Buren in 1840.  He was also known as “Old Kinderhook,” and O.K. was used as a campaign slogan, with a double entendre.

This anecdote is interesting, but more than that, I find it striking that some seemingly trivial event that happened to me in my childhood left a deep enough footprint in my psyche to last into my seventies.  It was strong enough that I was curious to take action on it sixty-four years later.  I can’t help but wonder the extent to which the person who I am today was shaped and molded by the tiniest of events in my distant past.  It’s not just the big things that leave a mark.  In fact, I’ve come to believe that it’s the little things that happen to us all the time that really matter.  That’s where the rubber meets the road.

These days, when out walking with Waldo in the woods, I pay attention to the seemingly insignificant things in life.  I converse with Emmy birds, listen to the chattering of squirrels and the rustling of leaves in the wind.  I won’t have sixty-four more years to carry these things with me, but I do have the rest of my life.

And they make my life what it is.

…being bathed in the natural world.

Home. It may not look it, but it is hot.

Lord, whatever it is you’re baking outside, it’s done!

-Anon

A heat dome up and squatted on a good portion of the US, including Marlborough, for the past few days.  The heat index is as high as 104℉ and the lows never get below the high 70s — too hot to walk Waldo in his thick sable birthday suit, even if we get up before dawn.  So, we’ve been staying inside in the AC, with only short poop and pee jaunts out into the furnace.

When I grew up, in the days when, in the winter, we had to walk to school in a blizzard, a mile each way, uphill both ways, we didn’t have AC.  It existed, but not for the common man is his vaunted castle.  In cars, air conditioning was by Armstrong – you had to crank down the windows by hand and you were very careful what you put your bare skin on.  I can only wonder how the border collie breed survived.

I’ve been in hotter conditions.  I can remember, when I was twelve, standing in front of the Taj Mahal in Agra, India, and the temperature was 114℉ in the shade.  And there was no shade nearby.  There was a shallow reflecting pool of water.  I was tempted to jump in and go as deep as I could, clothes and all.  I realized I would need a scuba tank to stay underwater, and that created an itch that I finally scratched in college — learning to scuba dive.

Then, there was the time I traveled back from Djibouti to Dire Dawa, Ethiopia, on a third-class train.  Not too far away is the Danakil Depression (maximum temperature measured there is 131℉), one of the hottest places on Earth.  The train was extremely slow – it stopped at every village with more than two tukuls (small waddle and daub round huts with thatched roofs).  The trip lasted a good twelve hours, we had no water, and by the time we got to Dire Dawa, I was very dehydrated.  The better part of wisdom told me not to trust the water, so I drank Coke instead.  After 8, 8-ounce bottles of the stuff, I finally broke into a sweat.  Since then, I reach for a nice cold Coke when I’m hot and dry.

There were many other times that I suffered through hot times because I had to.  I was younger then and I could abuse my body more intensely and not suffer any long-term repercussions.  These days, now that I’m in my mid-70s, I usually prefer a less… adventurous approach.  I’ll stay inside in the AC, thank you very much, and suffer the consequences to my bank account.  I get no argument from Waldo, either.

When it’s nice and cool outside, Waldo will go out to his balcony throne and spend the entire day out there, surveying his dogdom and giving out requisite dicta.  He’ll come in if he’s thirsty, or hungry, or needs to do a bathroom loop around the property, but, other than that, he’s ensconced on his seat of power.  In this heat, he goes out, does a woof or two, just to let the world know he’s there and watching, then comes back in and lies down.

Sometimes, he’ll go out for a little longer and lie down under the air conditioner.  Condensed water drips down on his fur and cools him off a bit, but not for long in these temperatures.  He also likes to lap up the water that collects in puddles below the AC.  I try to keep an eye on how much he’s drinking and make sure he has enough, but I can’t.  He won’t drink out of the bowl I keep for him inside.  I have no idea why that water isn’t good enough, but, apparently, outside water, that doesn’t come from a tap, is better.  The only way I know he’s getting enough to drink is by the fact that he has to go out and pee on a regular basis.

When we do go out for Waldo’s biological needs, we do our regular 15 minute, ½ mile loop.  Once back in the apartment, Waldo lays on his side on the bare floor, with his tongue stretched all the way out, panting fervently (I’m dripping with sweat).  After he cools off, he rolls over onto his belly, puts his chin on his paws and sighs.  There is no frenzied demonstration of pent-up border-collie energy that’s in emergent need of release.  It’s just too damn hot.  When he was younger, there might have been a pause of a half-hour or so, then he’d be ready to go again, no matter the weather.  Now, he’s a bit more sedate.

You could say that I am better off in my 70’s in the 2020s, than I was in my 20’s in the 1970s (or before), if for no other reason than because of the omnipresent AC.  Still, there are places I like to be, like Switzerland, where it still gets as hot as 90℉ and no one has home AC.  And you know what?  If given the chance, I’d still go to Agra and the Taj Mahal and take that slow third-class train through the deserts of East Africa and enjoy it.  But I think I’d be a little more aggressive about finding some nice cool place to rest afterward.

The good news?  Tomorrow the forecast is for a temperature of 69℉ all day long.

Assebet River Rail Trail, here we come!

Clear skies, hot temps!

“This is what democracy looks like.

You may never know what results come from your action.  But if you do nothing, there will be no result.

-Mahatma Ghandi

Today, Waldo and I are going on a different kind of walk.  We’re going to a “No Kings” demonstration in Marlborough, to be held at Union Common in the middle of downtown.  The Common is a small patch of grass and trees on a gently sloping hill, about a block square.  The “Union” part of its name doesn’t reference the Civil War North, but rather the “Union Congregational Church,” formed by the merger of two church societies in 1835.

Even so, the name has additional meaning because “John Brown’s Bell” is located in a tower monument there, on the corner of Bolton and Main Streets.  The bell was originally installed in the Harper’s Ferry Armory, then in the state of Virginia.  It was in the armory when John Brown took it over and tried to foment his slave rebellion in 1859.  Later, in 1861, the bell was “liberated” by members of Company I, 13^th Massachusetts infantry.  It’s said that the removal of the bell was inspired by a desire for a war souvenir and, by the way, Marlborough needed a fire bell.  Some say it is the second most important bell in American history, after the Liberty Bell.

The demonstration starts at 11 AM.  It’s chilly and a little wet.  There’s a light rain falling, really more like a heavy mist, and most of the 400 or so people who show up are wearing some kind of rain gear or carrying an umbrella.  I’m just wearing the light jacket I use when walking Waldo and a leather cap.  It doesn’t take too long and both Waldo and I are a bit damp, but we’re not soaked

We park in a lot about a half block away and are soon surrounded by people lining both sides of Bolton and Main Streets.  People are shouting slogans, like, “Hey, hey!  Ho, ho! Donald Trump has got to go!” and, “This is what democracy looks like!” while waving rainbow and US flags.  The chanting is being led by a young woman shouting into a megaphone, but its volume is turned down pretty low.  Still, the crowd is quite noisy and it makes Waldo a little nervous.  His tail is tucked between his legs and it’s obvious, to me, that he’s thinking, “What the hell?”  He doesn’t startle, whine, or shy when cars and trucks go by blaring their horns, but he doesn’t like it either.  We make our way through the throng and come across some people handing out rainbow and US flags.  I take one of each and stick them in Waldo’s collar so they stick up above his head.  He is now a member of the resistance!

We move through the tightly packed crowd – I think it makes Waldo a bit more comfortable to keep walking.  He weaves around people’s legs and they are appreciative of our presence, as is shown by pets and pats on a dog who is, by now, somewhat wet.  Some are even moved to take his picture.  Everyone is centered about the intersection, just under the bell, and spread out down both streets.  The streets themselves are clear for traffic and it’s pretty obvious that many of the cars that pass us by do so in support of what’s going on.

After a bit, just to put in our daily distance, we leave the crowd and meander around the periphery of the common.  At the top of the hil a police car is parked  with a single officer as occupant.  We say hello as we pass and he seems pretty bored by the duty he has pulled.  There is another policeman at the intersection, in the middle of the crowd, who looks just as disinterested.  That’s a far cry from the protests I remember as a college student back in the 1970s.  I offer to go get the man a cup of coffee from one of the nearby restaurants, but he says, no thanks, he’s all set.  I felt a little like how the hippies must have felt, back in the day, who stuffed flowers in the barrels of the weapons of National Guardsmen.

All in all, everything was peaceful.  The only dissent that appeared was toward the end when a burly man raised his middle finger to us as he walked by.  We, the crowd, ignored him and two policemen took him aside and spoke gently to him, trying to keep things deescalated.  It worked.  Soon after, having spent two hours out on the street, Waldo and I went home to dry out.

For me, being out there was not a way of venting frustration, but an effort to take part in showing the world that there are a great number of citizens who are not happy with the way things are going down.  I can only hope it helps.  Today’s walk wasn’t quite as long as our usual daily trek and it was a bit nerve-wracking for Waldo.

But maybe we did something good.

Waldo in full patriotic regalia.