Night Walks

Just down from a chilly sit on the rise.  I was fooled by the “warm” weather for this time of year, in the 30’s by the thermometer, but the wind skidded the feel down to the 20’s.  Still I love sitting there at any season, looking out on the gentle roll of mountains, striated bands of ridges, opening and opening off into the distance.  I’m taking in as much as I can each day, letting it reside within so I can carry it with me.  When I leave for the holidays I don’t know when I’ll be back next, maybe not until April.  A bittersweet thought, so I’m letting it go, letting it loose. 

The pond is frozen solid now, a grey, opaque crust with powdered sugar snow sprinkled around its edges and dusting throughout.  I’m in the kitchen now, looking out across the road, a good fire creaking in the jodul stove, Christmas music on the stereo.  Richard’s gone until 3, so I’m alone to read, write, ponder, work on an upcoming play.  It’s hard not to want to sleep all day.  I guess that’s the body’s natural leaning this time of year, toward hibernation.  That’s fine with me.  Love naps, love dreams, love everything to do with that.  Sometime I’ll take my daily walk.

I’ve gotten in the habit of taking night walks down our road, 2 miles to North Road, 2 miles back.  There are things I miss from walking in the day – the vistas, being able to read a book as I walk if the mood moves me, my tryst with Robert and Lenice’s golden lab Anu when I pass their place.  She senses me coming and barks and barks making sure it’s me before she barrels toward me and at the last minute flips onto her back in an ecstasy of subservience; oh, she’s such a sweet, sweet dog.  The dark’s been calling me though.  I usually set out just after the last blast of incredible light from the sunset reflecta off the tall maples surrounding our orchards, the sun’s own brand of “Adieu, adieu, remember me.” I don my reflector vest, elastic strap a camp light to my forehead, and step out into the darkening landscape right around 4:30 (still so weird it getting dark at that time, my body feels off accepting that).  First, I walk the geese up to their house.  They go without a fuss, they know, they’re almost grateful for the shepherding.  “Show us the way.”  We go slowly, their pace, me whispering “thank yous” to them as they pad methodically along.  I love watching their pliable orange feet give and take with the earth, those marvelous, prehistoric looking triangles with claws, so quiet.  As they near their gate, they look down to measure the little hop they have to make over the 2 X 4, peering as if they’re in need of glasses.  I give them room.  Shmuel’s the last one in and then turns to give a ritual “don’t cross this line” gesture, sticking his neck out slightly.  To give the gesture a little oomph, he might shiver flutter his wings and nibble at the fencing across the gate after I snap the door shut, but that’s rare anymore.  We have an understanding now, between men, that that’s his place and outside’s mine.  The chickens may be ready to be shut up by then too, even though Richard has their “light” lengthened an hour before and an hour after the sun with a light bulb mounted on the ceiling near the door.  This keeps goings on in the coop a little more lively than normal.  2 birds are usually perched atop the door and I have to gently grab them by their feet and transfer them to a roosting bar before shutting the door.  At first this entailed a lot of fuss and feather flapping, but now we both are letting it be easy.  A “thank you” is in order for them too after the shift is made. 

Then I’m off.  Now it’s usually just the sound of the wind and the trudge of my muck boots in the sandy road.  An occasional passing car or truck, momentarily slowing when my reflectors or light bring me into view.  Yesterday, for the first part of the walk, I was taking words of a script off the page and speaking them to the surrounding woods, the words on the page illuminated by my head lamp.  The woodland creatures might’ve been wondering who this weirdo was.  It was fun, though.  And freeing.  The wind, the script’s words given new twists.  But most of the walk was just walking sounds.  It gets to be you can hardly make out anything.   I have a sense of where the road is going, and I have my little head lamp, whose ray at one point reminded me of the point in “It’s a Wonderful Life” when Clarence has jumped into the water to “save” Jimmy Stewart and the bridge watchman flips on a searchlight to fine the source of the frantic screams.  Anu saw the light coming down the road as I neared Robert and Lenice’s and began barking a good guard dog alert.  She didn’t recognize it as me, though, despite my calls to calm her down, trying to get her to come over.  She sounded a bit confused by it all, and was finally called in and I was alone again.

It’s cozy out in the dark, invigorating.  Without the distraction of views, the focus is completely on your thoughts.  Out in the elements with the headlamp acting as a kind of guide, illuminating what needs to be illuminated.  The houses look like ocean liners on a dark sea as you pass them.  A little bit of magic.  It’s all comforting.  So I suppose I’m taking the darkness in and letting it reside within me too, taking it with me wherever I go.  It seems fitting for this time of year.