Navel Gazing

Walking

The role of walking changed over the years. At first it served primarily as an escape, a way to hide from the feelings of failure that plagued my mind. Those disruptive thoughts were temporarily silenced as I pushed myself along the trail, plugged into one of the many podcasts maintained on my phone. I walked anywhere from 5 to 7 miles each morning after the boys were delivered to school. A case can be made that most everything in my life back then was used as an escape, but no activity fulfilled that purpose better than walking.

The routine allowed me to feel numb, to disappear. I wasn't the only person taking advantage of the trail, and eventually others walking along the river became familiar. Like George, the elderly man who defies his age with his fast walk and long stride as he moves along the trail. Often shirtless, George keeps himself lean by tossing a rock back and forth between hands as he hikes. "Another crappy day," he'll quip as he passes on a beautiful sunny morning. Others were known by some characteristic or a followed pattern, that interrupted my otherwise trance-induced state.  A young blonde gal with a high-raised arm smiles and waves when she greets you as she speeds by. She's built like a linebacker and maintains a mind-boggling fast run. In contrast, the still dark-haired elderly Asian lady, who jogs at a much slower pace, is frequently halted when her friendly 4-legged companion requires attention from those encountered. She doesn't seem to mind the interruption and makes small talk with those who stop to appreciate the Golden Retriever at her side. Occasionally, I'll run into a prior classmate named Terri. She's a fellow Westwood High alumnus and an ex-girlfriend to one of my life-long friends. My faint recollection of Terri from when we were teenagers calls up images of a pretty girl with an edge. Throughout the years, she has maintained her good looks. The edge remembered has smoothed, and other than age, can likely be attributed to her successful teaching career and lasting marriage, that resulted in a picturesque family.

Another man, whom I befriended along the trail, was easily identified from far distances as I closed the gap between us. I never learned what caused his impairment that made him so noticeable. He appeared to have suffered a stroke, or perhaps recovered from an accident that made it difficult for him to walk and speak. I suppose initially why I liked him is that he reminded me of my Grandfather, Papa George, who when alive spoke with a thick accent and was nearly deaf in his later years. Similar to my Grandfather, it was difficult for me to communicate with him. When he spoke, I struggled to understand. He had the olive skin of someone of Latin or Greek descent and was pleasant in the same way as my Papa: well-groomed, fit, and with a humble demeanor.

In my childhood, whenever my Grandparents stayed overnight with us, Papa was the earliest to rise. I assume not wanting to wake anyone; he would quietly use the downstairs bathroom. Hours later, the scent of his aftershave remained. Today when by happenstance I come across someone wearing Aqua Velva, I think of him. The fragrance evokes memories of a kind and gentle man skilled in sketching perfect scenes of Native Americans adorned with feathered headdresses while riding atop wild horses. Papa, who would easily succumb to tears when reading his own birthday cards, was also a strong and disciplined man who had spent 50 years with the Santa Fe Pacific Railroad. During World War II, he worked long shifts of 7-day work weeks and aided in the shipment of raw materials used to create fighter planes, steel plates for shipyards, and food for American troops and families. He worked his way through the ranks and ended his career as a car inspector. In retirement, he built a small house for himself and Nanny, where each morning he continued the regimen of rising early to work outdoors. He spent those morning hours clearing his property and maintaining the household. Some of my favorite memories with him were from summer visits in my youth. Together with my younger brother, we would join Papa to gather firewood. We were raised in the city, which only added to the excitement of what were routine chores to him. Making use of the winch attached to the front of his truck, Papa would drag sections of fallen trees up the hill that afterward, from a safe distance, we watched as he cut into rounds with his chain saw. Later, we would help him split those rounds into firewood using a wedge and sledge hammer.

Often along the trail, the man would stop to stretch. Sometimes he would groan as if in pain. There were many times before when I quietly passed, not wanting to draw his attention and embarrass him. One day, as I neared the Norwood Bridge, I ran into him. It became apparent he needed help and wanted my assistance. Despite his difficulty communicating, his gestures indicated that the elastic leash that held his glasses had broken. I tied it with a square knot, and after some struggled attempts to enunciate his appreciation, he limped off. Our friendship began. Each day after that first encounter, I carried an extra leash until I saw him again. It felt good to help someone who so obviously needed it. Whenever we met on the trail, we'd stop and share some time, filled mostly with nods and grins that transitioned to our goodbye: A smile and pat on the shoulder as each continued on our way.

There's a warm feeling you get with certain people, a mutual happiness that when around them shows in each other's eyes. It had been a while since seeing him when I came upon the reason for his absence...an announcement posted on a tree that included his name, picture, and funeral details.

One morning, Nanny found Papa George on the ground near his bed...for as long as remembered they had maintained separate bedrooms due to Papa's penchant for snoring. During the night Papa had suffered a stroke. He recovered, but years later would suffer another, and we all gathered at the Boston Kaiser Hospital. I remember talking with him at his bedside and feeling like he seemed scared. An emotion I couldn't remember being displayed by him before. Regardless, all seemed well. And then, suddenly, it wasn't. His rapid decline in health is hauntingly reminiscent of my own Father's recent passing.

I miss running into the man on the trail and the routine of our exchange. I wondered about his prior life, and although much was unknown, I felt like I knew him well. An inconsistency with my earlier statement on the importance of detail; however, I knew enough to believe he was a good person and a friend. Those few minutes spent together on days when our paths crossed gave me a break from my worries and provided a reason to feel good about myself.

For those who share my passion and hike along the same area of trail that extends from Norwood to Westwood, I might be seen as the man with graying hair, always with a Starbucks cup in hand, who is quick to smile and greet them. They may have noticed that for years I've walked alone, but now I am accompanied by my girlfriend, or more often a younger man that bares my resemblance and who shares my smile and obvious taste for coffee. Unknown to most that pass, the young man by my side is the second-born son Noah. He has taken to morning walks and like his Dad, precedes the hike with a well-rehearsed order from Starbucks: A Grande Pike Place coffee in a venti cup, with steamed cream.