Today I passed another milestone, today marks the beginning of week
thirteen of my lockdown. It seems surreal somehow, not to have touched
another human being for three months. I am in contact with my friends,
with one on a daily basis. We check in with one another just to make sure
we have survived the night, and we laugh, at little things mostly, but it is
the link to our sanity.
Last week I went to the garden plot I have with the city and I worked the
soil, fertilized, raked and plotted my rows and hills. I planted the seeds
that one day will give me beans and squash and cucumbers. I planted the
the chard and tomato and pepper plants. And, as always, I sowed the seeds
which will become the beautiful flowers that I will harvest along with my
veggies, for they are food for my soul. They say he who plants a garden ,
plants hope, hope for the future.
My hope is that one day this will be a distant memory and we will laugh
about how long our hair got and scrounging for toilet paper, wearing masks
and latex gloves just to get a quart of milk. But the laugh will ring hollow
for some of us, those who have lost friends and relatives. A loss all the worse
for not being able to say good-by. And new grandchildren that have yet to be
held, breathing in the sweet smell of them, feeling the connection with the
past and the bridge to the future.
There are things I do just to prove to myself that there is a life outside my
condo walls. I have walked everyday, and today I aired up the tires on my
bicycle and took to the trail. There is something about a bike ride, the sun
on your face, and the wind in your hair, it is the feeling of freedom. The same
freedom I felt when I was a child and my bike took me away; past my school,
and the corner grocer, past the park, and grandma and grandpa's house. No where
to go and all day to get there.
These days I ride the city trail, it is paved and winds its way for twelve glorious
miles thru cool wooded tracts and bright sunny fields. I pass the park, there should
be children there but not today, there is no one on the swings, no one on the
merry-go-round. Must be careful. I go down the hill and across the wooden bridge
that spans the small creek that will bubble alongside of me for at least three miles
before turning off. I can hear the peepers singing their spring song, and the smell
of the moist ground that is shaking off its icy blanket, assaults my nose. The water-
cress is greening the banks.
The trail enters a dense shady stretch, the cool is welcome even though the day is not
warm. Here there is lush vegetation, some cultivated some natural, all beautiful. Up
a small hill and I break into a residential section. Large expansive lawns lead to lovely
homes, all meticulously mowed and trimmed. Here and there, there is the sound of a
fountain splashing into a pond, surrounded by a riot of colorful flowers planted in
graceful curved beds. I wonder as I pass, who lives there? Did they plant their yard
solely for my enjoyment? They cannot see it from their house like I can from the trail.
Silently I thank them as I peddle past.
I come to my first crossroad; in the hot days of summer an enterprising young man has
a lemonade stand at the corner. He advertises his business with chalk messages up and
down the trail: "Lemonade ahead - $.50 a glass". I don't supposed he will be there this
summer, not with the fear of the deadly virus still lurking. Crossing the road, I continue
my way past homes, these are not so grand, but none the less beautifully landscaped.
Once in awhile I spot a 'Little Library'. Most of them say "closed", I guess they are
suffering the same fate as my young friend with the lemonade stand.
I cross another bridge over the creek that has turned and will disappear into a pond. Now
the trail opens up onto a grassy field, last years cattails are fat and furry, they are shedding
their fluff, no more sleek and sassy brown spears, they have a bedraggled look about them.
A redwing blackbird perches on one gathering the soft material for his nesting bed. He
trills at me as I ride by. Up the hill and across another roadway, I peddle past a grove of
elderberry bushes, their blooms not quite open. Come August they will be covered in
dark red berries. And further into the trees I spy the Mayapples, the drupes hanging beneath
the umbrella foliage. They aren't quite ready to taste, picked too early, they will give
one's tummy a message not soon forgotten.
I must have passed a dozen cottontails, some in pairs and some alone. They are used to
the bicycles I guess, for they look up from their munching, but for a second only.
They don't even flash their fluffy tails; I am just ignored. The ground squirrels play tag
with my bike tires, running to and fro, they dare me to run them over. They chatter away,
laughing at my attempts to steer around them.
Now and then I meet a walker or a jogger, I smile and nod, they nod back, there is no
conversation as we aren't wearing masks, it would seem so rude to Mother Nature;
as though we were shunning her invitation to come and enjoy her bounty. I reach the
last crossroad, now the trail becomes part of a street. It is here that I leave it, I make
a U-turn and head for home the way I came.
It only takes me forty-five minutes to ride that short twelve miles, but in that time, I
can forget that the world is in turmoil, people are dyeing, and so many don't have
enough to eat. I remember that the world was a beautiful place and one day it will
be again, if not tomorrow, then soon.
I'm just sayin'
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