A Walk in the Woods
I went for a walk in the woods today.
The sky was blue and the air still held a kiss of springtime cool, though it was warm enough for a tank top.
As I strolled around, looking at what was growing, I thought of the walks I would take with my Dad when I was a child, and of the times he would let me come with him when he went trout fishing.
I must have seemed like a mosquito in his ear on those walks or fishing trips: a talkative, imaginative child bubbling over with questions and ideas. Looking back now, his patience was saintly. He did tell me sometimes that fish wouldn't bite if we weren't quiet. Then I would quietly line up his bait worms on a nice, flat rock, so they would be ready for him when he needed one. I'm sure that was helpful.
It was high in the Colorado Rockies that those observing, contemplating, conversational strolls happened. I can still see my Dad in my mind's eye, walking along with his hands clasped behind his back. Mom never went on a walk that I can recall. My sister and brothers were much older and busy in their own lives, so if they took walks with Dad it was basically before my time. Or maybe they didn't? Or maybe Dad didn't have time for an evening stroll until later in his life? I don't know. Whatever it was, I got the ribeye on that deal.
Sometimes, my Uncle Jack would go, too. Then he and Dad would usually talk about religion or politics, subjects upon which they agreed but still managed to have heated discussions. I think they each enjoyed having a sparring partner to argue with, arguing being kind of a family sport. Or we would try to identify the growing things, a game at which I got to be fairly good by the time we moved away.
The sky was blue and the air still held a kiss of springtime cool, though it was warm enough for a tank top.
As I strolled around, looking at what was growing, I thought of the walks I would take with my Dad when I was a child, and of the times he would let me come with him when he went trout fishing.
I must have seemed like a mosquito in his ear on those walks or fishing trips: a talkative, imaginative child bubbling over with questions and ideas. Looking back now, his patience was saintly. He did tell me sometimes that fish wouldn't bite if we weren't quiet. Then I would quietly line up his bait worms on a nice, flat rock, so they would be ready for him when he needed one. I'm sure that was helpful.
It was high in the Colorado Rockies that those observing, contemplating, conversational strolls happened. I can still see my Dad in my mind's eye, walking along with his hands clasped behind his back. Mom never went on a walk that I can recall. My sister and brothers were much older and busy in their own lives, so if they took walks with Dad it was basically before my time. Or maybe they didn't? Or maybe Dad didn't have time for an evening stroll until later in his life? I don't know. Whatever it was, I got the ribeye on that deal.
Sometimes, my Uncle Jack would go, too. Then he and Dad would usually talk about religion or politics, subjects upon which they agreed but still managed to have heated discussions. I think they each enjoyed having a sparring partner to argue with, arguing being kind of a family sport. Or we would try to identify the growing things, a game at which I got to be fairly good by the time we moved away.
Now I take my own quiet walks, usually in solitude, but sometimes with my Sweet Hubs or furbabies in tow. Now I am trying to learn the names of the growing things I see in this new place. But in the fullness of time, I take a simple, soul-filling walk in the woods, and it feels like Dad is walking along beside me. He would have loved this place.
Comments
Post a Comment
Thank you for taking the time to visit me! I truly appreciate your comments!