Possibly the Last Holiday Walk...Or Not

After disappearing from here for a while, I'm finally back to posting with some regularity (I hope). I'm going to give it a darn good shot!

This past Sunday was Easter, a time when many of us have family over for a holiday meal and to just hang out.

I know, I know, it's also a religious day, as in holy day. But that's beside the point. Most of us have traditions that get us through the holidays, the days, years, which is the point I'm getting to.

Years ago, when I'd quit driving cab, but my better half still drove, I decided to take a walk through a nearby park after putting the turkey into the oven. I'd already bake the pies, and wouldn't have to start the mashed potatoes, etc. for a few hours, so since the back entrance to the park is only a few houses away, I figured I'd burn some calories from the big meal ahead of time.

I picked one of the horse trails that I usually didn't go through the rest of the year for several reasons. It would take a good hour to head to the end of the trail and back; the scenery was a little different, and therefore, seemed a little more of a tradition (the holiday path is how I came to think of it); and the old standard, "just because." It was nice seeing the subtle changes from holiday to holiday.

Palm Frond, Easter, 2010



For the record, the holidays I'd go out for this walk remained the same three: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. I tried keeping up with this tradition, even after my better half retired. He'd use the time for a nap (who can't use a nap or two on the holidays!), while I got my alone time wandering through the wooded park. True, there were some holidays when I didn't make it out: One Christmas, it rained most of the day; another year, I'd fallen off a ladder the end of October, and wasn't up to a walk on Thanksgiving. But for the most part, it remained that tradition.

Most of the time, I'd walk through the park by myself, though there were a few times when my next-to-youngest son, M., came with me. We'd talk about different things, but one thing that sticks out is this: There are lamps throughout the park to light up the horse path around twilight. These lamps are very cool looking, almost retro-ish, like something you'd expect to see in early twentieth century London. And so, one Thanksgiving, M. mentioned that these lamps reminded him of C.S. Lewis's Narnia series. I asked M. about them, as I knew that there were two different orders of the books: the order in which Lewis wrote them, and the chronological order of them. M. used most of the hour-long walk to regale me about the books.

Then, on Christmas, M. came with me again.

"See that lamp?" he asked, pointing out the first one. "It reminds me of the lamps in Narnia." And he was off and gabbing. When Easter came, and M. came with me, I pointed out the lamp, then requested he not spend the hour talking about Narnia. (By the way, I now am the proud owner of the entire series. That's it, I have to read them!)

The only photo of one of the lamps. It's half-way down the path on the left-hand side. Look close...




I enjoyed seeing the subtle changes from holiday to holiday, year to year. One part of the woods always seemed easy to spot change. It was a stand of pale trees that looked different from most of the trees throughout the park. They were on my left, just before the turn-around point, and had a short path through them that went to part of a recreation center.

Lighter barked trees







Path, from rec center to horse path



Slowly, over the years, the stand changed, shifted. Trees fell, younger ones grew, the path disappeared, so that it's no longer there. It looks almost a total wreck.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Several years ago, on my Easter walk, I was tired, and had trouble keeping up my usual pace. So, I took my time, looking around at the different trees, the changes in the park, that sort of thing. I was actually exhausted, and probably should have stayed home, but after a few rough months - getting rid of a difficult roommate, losing my mom - I wanted to get out for my traditional walk. That was the first time I noticed what I've come to think of as the dancing tree.

Dancing Tree, Thanksgiving 2017



And again, Easter, 2019



Half-way to the end of the path - or, rather, my turn-around spot - the path turns to the left. Looking straight ahead, just before one turns, is a row of homes that were built several years ago. They weren't there the first few years I went for my walk. Now, I'm used to them, and enjoy hearing families talking in that sometimes-quiet-often-boisterous way that the holidays bring out. I could always spot which houses had the gatherings in full swing by the amount of chatter coming from the open windows.

One year, I discovered this plant behind the new houses. Unfortunately, it was one of the plants that was cut back.





At the end of the short road that the new-ish homes are is a white fence, signaling a dead end. On the other side of the fence was a cool older Florida-style home. I was always intrigued by it. One year, I even noticed a sign by the garage: Park Taxi Parking Only. Park Taxi had been a cab company in Pinellas Park that was bought out almost 30 years ago by one of the bigger cab companies. My ex had worked for the owners of Park Taxi.

I wondered about the sign, and later discovered that the old taxi owner had bought the house. I knew that the owners had split up after selling Park Taxi, but hadn't realized that the male half of the equation had moved to this house.

The sign that first got my attention





W.'s house, garage, property



Back porch



After learning that it had belonged to W., had been, most likely, the last place he lived before he passed away, I had thought it would be interesting to consider buying the place. It's yard was right up against part of the park, was surrounded by a fence on the north side (the other side of the white fence was the end of a short street with fairly new, nice-looking houses), a stable on the south side, and woods around the property.

One of the last times I passed the house, maybe a year or more ago, the back porch was littered with beer cans, as though either homeless people had camped out there, or someone had broken in and had a party on the back porch.

Wow, I hope someone ends up buying the place and fixing it up nicely, I thought, realizing that I would probably never come up with a down payment.

But it turned out, it had been bought. No one moved into it. Instead, the house and woods were torn down to put in apartments.

Where W.'s house had been



There was also a huge stand of trees a little farther along, at my turn-around point, that was torn down, as homeless people frequently slept there.

Missing trees at the turn around point. This had been heavily wooded.



I hadn't seen the destruction of woods at the turn-around point or where W.'s house had been over Thanksgiving or Christmas, 2018, as I had gone to the beach with my daughter, to relax and take photos (check out A Year (or More) of Photos, then type in either Thanksgiving or Christmas, 2018 for time spent there). But as I walked back home on Sunday, saddened by some of the changes, I began to realize that it might be time for a new holiday tradition - or, at least, a new place to walk.

A Walk In The Park...

It's been one of those days when things get a little weird. Not bad weird or good weird, just weird. It'd be easy enough to say what all went on, but it would almost sound whiney, and it really wasn't a bad day. Just...aggrevating and...weird. Let's just say it entailed half-hour long phone calls to walk me through computer stuff while listening to my friend Kevin calling on my cell phone about some weirdness he was going through. Let's face it, when one deals with any kind of government agency, no matter how large or small, and computers and paperwork, it's bound to get weird.

So this afternoon, I decided to go for a walk through the nearby park. My son, J., decided to go, too. He grabed my new cell phone that my daughter, M.H., had gotten for me. It has all sorts of features, one of which makes it great for geocaching, something J. has been interested in for a while.

We got to the park, then started heading off in different directions, he toward the horse trails through the woods that I usually use mainly on my holiday walks, while I headed south along a path that I frequently go on. But at the last minute, I detoured and caught up with J.

Turns out, he wanted to check a few spots that the geocache site said were in the woods. He'd never found any of the stuff from the site, but that hasn't stopped him from checking it out, anyway.

We wandered through the woods, both on and off the path, looking for stuff. "What sort of stuff is used for geocaching?" I asked.

"Just stuff," came his response. Sometimes it's stuff in baggies--a pad of paper and pen, a couple of dime-store toys. Sometimes it's stuff that can fit into a film canister. You just never know. But if you find something, you're supposed to leave it where you found it, then, when you're back on the computer, you check in and report what was found and where.

We wandered around for maybe half an hour before heading back. Since it had rained heavily a few days ago, much of the trail was muddy; some of it had huge puddles stretching across it. We finally had to head back, since we really could go no further.

A little way back, I spotted something just off the path and pointed it out to J. "Could that be something from the geocache site?" He checked the phone's GPS and said that there was something nearby on the site.

Turned out what I saw was simply a discarded food container. But a little farther, we spotted a baggie with a pad of paper, a pen, and a few odds and ends. A waterproof camera sat nearby. We opened the bag, saw that the pad had been signed by quite a few geocachers. We signed it - no real names, of course, but as his geocache name "and friend" (me), as well as the date. We opted out of taking any pictures, though. Long story, but we figured it'd be safer that way.

On the way home, we talked about how cool that was, finding the geocache stuff. "I think I want a cell phone like this," J. told me.

All I know for sure is that after a very weird day, a walk in the park was just what was needed.

Christmas Day

Yesterday was Christmas, and I'm okay with that. That might seem like a strange thing to say; how could anyone not be okay with Christmas? (If you've spent your life celebrating Hanukkah instead, or any other winter holidays, I'm not trying to disrespect you; I'm simply writing where I'm coming from and my point of reference. I'd love to read your writings on the subject.)

But being okay with Christmas: You have no idea how long it took me to be able to say that. Sure, as a kid, especially if you've grown up in a middle-class family, as I did, Christmas was great. What wasn't there to love: First off, there were the presents, the extended family, the food, the lights, the whole ambience of Christmas. We may have had two trees, since I do remember seeing a decorated tree in a corner of the living room by our corner windows, and the big tree - the one where we'd find the presents - downstairs in the playroom.

Most years, it seems, we'd go to both sets of grandparents' places, usually one a day or two before Christmas, the other either on Christmas Day for dinner, or a set would come over for Christmas. Both of my parents had one sibling who lived in close proximity so that whichever set didn't have Christmas dinner with us would have a place to go. All very good.

Of course, these days, with family frequently spread across the country, this is a little more difficult. Thank goodness for phones, though it's still not quite the same. Maybe in some respects, that's not always a bad thing; we all have our weird holiday stories.

But then, life changed, evolved. When we moved to Connecticut, it seemed that one year, both sets of grandparents came one year for Christmas, along with my mom's father's brother and his wife. Uncle George and Aunt Elsie were what could be classified as characters, a nice way of saying eccentric, or at least on friendly terms with it. Of course, I'm not really sure if both sets of grandparents came at once, or if my memory is simply condensing several holidays together. Either way, it wouldn't have been more than one Christmas. I do remember standing around the piano in what my mother called the music room, my mother playing Christmas tunes and hymns Christmas Eve and Christmas night, Broadway show tunes the next evening, while everyone stood around, singing.

(An aside that has nothing to do with Christmas: Off the music room was the downstairs bathroom; that almost deserves its own post: the previous owners painted the entire room in various shades of purple and lavender, including a purple sink and toilet. My mother named the room the purple potty, and the name stuck; forty-plus years later, the term still resonates.)

There were more moves: From Thompson to Woodstock, Connecticut, to Pittsford, New York just outside Rochester, and finally to Florida. There are plenty more holiday memories, mostly good.

When I married my ex, my parents weren't exactly thrilled; somehow, I doubt that it was simply his blue-collar roots. But that's neither here nor there. We did have some pleasant memories, interspersed among the rough spots, and we did have four offspring who I'm proud of more often then not; they're finally at that age when we can have semi-intelligent conversations. My second husband was also a blue-collar man with middle-class roots and enough patience to put up with an out-spoken extravert. He and I had good memories, including holidays.

This year, things have been tight, financially. We'd hoped that, since M.H., B., and G. now live nearby, we'd be able to see them for Christmas, as they'd had holidays for the past 15 or so years with family in Rhode Island. But life happens: their car died an unhappy death after they'd moved into their apartment nearby (but still requiring two bus routes, which, on the holiday schedule, is interesting, meaning a much shorter day), they now have a scooter to get around on (really pretty much a one-person deal, even if it does have pegs for a second person to put his or her feet), and M.H. had to work yesterday from shortly after noon until a little after 6. Finances didn't include cab fare to and from either way. You know the old joke that goes "How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans"? That's what happened to our first extended family Christmas in years. I could have copped an attitude, but it wouldn't have helped any.

Added to the fun was that our toilet, which has been acting up - but doing better the past few weeks - decided to act up on Christmas Eve day. This year, of course, it fell on a Monday, which means that a lot of places were giving workers a rare four-day weekend. I hated having to call the landlord about it, but also didn't relish the thought of a holiday with a backed-up commode. I'm funny about stuff like that. (And I'm sure you've already inserted something else into that stuff spot.)

The people coming out to fix it arrived just as I was heading out to meet M. at the bus; he had gone out to pick up last minute stuff from the store that we really needed for Christmas dinner and needed help carrying it all home from the bus stop. But J. was here, so that was cool; he could keep Drexie and Karma from making a break for it whenever the door was open.

As M. and I figured out who would carry what from the bus stop, we heard someone shout, "Hey, Robin!" I looked around in time to see Sandy V., J.'s day care lady from years ago. She lives within a mile or two from our place, but somehow, our lives have gotten so crazy that only occasionally see each other, and almost exclusively when we bump into each other. Usually, it's at the nearby Publix when we're shopping.

But she was out for a run in the misty weather. We quickly got caught up on each others' lives. She's married, has three kids, her daughters are now older than she was when we first met, her son older than most of my kids were when we met. Is it really possible that that much time has passed?

After we said our good-byes, Sandy off toward home, M. and I toward our place, I called J. and told him who we'd seen. Then I asked if the people working on the toilet were still there. No, he informed me; they'd plunged it, got it flushing, and left.

It worked fine the rest of the day. Good enough. Then, yesterday morning, I got up, went into the bathroom before starting the coffee and getting to work cooking, and sure enough, the toilet backed up. I plunged it once or twice, but wasn't thrilled.

Several hours later, after I did one load of laundry (when I'm baking and making holiday meals, I go through a ton of dish towels), I heard M. yell that he needed some bath towels NOW from the bathroom. Yup, you guessed it: there was a definite over-flow problem.

After we cleaned up a little and I started another load of laundry (thank goodness for the extra-hot setting on the washer), I called the landlord. When the property manager called back, she sounded as unhappy to be talking to me as I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough person, and I'm sure that if we were to meet under other circumstances, there's a chance we might talk over coffee. It's doubtful we'd ever be close best buddies - no BFFs here - but she's a nice enough person. But who wants to have to make or receive a call like that on Christmas? If there's one time of year when most of us want our family time, our please leave me alone unless you're calling to wish me a happy holiday time, it's Christmas.

She said it would be taken care of today, not to flush the commode, etc. This was the scenario we'd both hoped to avoid.

(For the record, she's already mentioned this morning that it will be taken care of today. We both were a little more, well, not okay with the situation, but at least not growling over it; at this point, that's an improvement.)

I finished the preliminary baking - two loaves of pumpkin bread, two pumpkin pies, and a cranberry-raisin pie - before starting the stuffing and turkey. Usually, I bake an apple pie, pouring apple cider into it for extra yumminess (yes, that's the technical term: yumminess), but we were a little short on cash this year. But M. and I decided that a cranberry-raisin pie would be a suitable stand-in. Twice in the past, I tried baking all three kinds of pie for holidays, but have since decided that that was a little much. Once I got the turkey into the oven, I washed a few dishes, had a cup of hot tea, then put my shoes on.

Years ago, when I'd already quit driving cab, and Paul was driving for what he knew was his last holiday season driving cab, I'd taken a walk through the nearby park. This particular park is less than a block away; I can see the back entrance to it from my front porch. It has a playground, horse trails through the woods (there are plenty of stables in close proximity), rings for horse shows, and a rec center which doubles as a local voting precinct. Usually, through most of the year, I walk along one of the horse paths along the edge of the park on my way to other paths during my morning walks/runs. But the Thanksgiving before Paul retired, I'd put the turkey in the oven, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV (something my maternal grandmother got me into the habit of doing; it still somehow connects me to her), then went through a walk on the horse trails through the woods. It took close to an hour to walk to the end of the trail and back (or, at least, as far as I'd planned to go). I loved taking the walk enough that I did it again on Christmas. (I've been known to walk it on Easter Sunday, too.)

Since then, I've missed a couple of holidays; Christmas, 2004, it rained; Thanksgiving, 2010, I was still sore and nowhere near up for a walk after a fall from a ladder at roof level onto a cement driveway (something like that takes a bit of a recovery, trust me on that), this past Thanksgiving, M. and I went to M.H., B. and G.'s apartment, and so on. Occasionally, I think, This'll probably be the last time I do this for whatever reason; but almost without fail, the next holiday, I'm back out there. It gives me an excuse to walk a different trail, to see the changes since the last time I walked it, and to just let my mind wander along with my feet. One year, I saw a peacock walking parallel to the path. Several years, M. and J. joined me for the walk.

Quick story: the city put lights along the horse path. The path tends to get dark by late afternoon; the lights turn on automatically, making it easier to see the path. They're tall, with an opaque orb at the top. They remind M. of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series. One year, M. walked with me on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the following Easter; each time, he'd spend the entire walk telling me about Narnia, discussing whether I should read the books in chronological order or in the order that Lewis had written them. Narnia and the lights in the park are now one of M.'s and my inside jokes. Every holiday, I remind myself that I really want to read the Narnia series - it's one of those books or series I've told myself everyone needs to read, or, at least, I need/want to. And then life gets busy, crazily busy, and Narnia slips my mind, at least until the next holiday walk.

Yesterday, I walked the trail alone, noticing changes: how a stand of trees that I'd enjoyed was slowly disappearing - a stand of off-white trees with slightly peeling bark, trees that stood huddled together like a lost tribe; the newer houses near the park and how the older new houses - ones that were built in the past six or seven years but are older than the newer new houses; the changes to the stable next to the park; in general, letting my mind wander.

Heading back down the trail, a woman riding a horse approached. Usually, by this point in my holiday walk, I've seen maybe half-a-dozen horse-and-riders in several groups; this time, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see any.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the rider called, and I agreed. We both wish each other Merry Christmas. Then, as if on cue, the horse nodded, whinnied, and veered a few steps toward me. I'd been around horses as a kid, so it didn't startle me. The woman steered the horse back to its original course.

"Sorry," she told me. "He's just looking for treats." I smiled, and made a mental note to bring carrot pieces on my next holiday walk - after which, I'll start the Narnia series.

By the time I got home, I was in a better mood, one where I could handle stinky bathrooms.

And, in spite of having to work, M.H. apparently had a decent enough Christmas, too.

We still have next year to look forward to.



Note: The path below used to walk through the stand of trees mentioned near the end of this post; enough of the trees have either died or been cleared by the city that the path is no longer there.