Walking To and Fro

April 6, 9:30 AM

I just returned from my walk, my hour on the greenway near my condo. Now I am on my tiny patio, journal in my lap, steaming coffee at my side and Louie at my feet, looking through the opening in the gate waiting to greet other walkers as they pass by. It's early yet, but they'll be here. So many of us are outside walking and running and biking, staying outside and exercising while the coronavirus is lurking.

Do you think that if anyone reads this journal years from now, they will know what the heck a coronavirus is, was? I would bet on it. It will be the same way we remember the day President Kennedy was assassinated, or for us New Orleaneans, the way we remember Hurricane Katrina. We can tell you where we were and whom we were with. With corona it will be easy. We are home, home, home alone, alone, alone.

We are on the run too, or in my case, walk. Exercise. We all need extra exercise for our sanity. I've been walking on the greenway for a while. The greenway began as just a bike path. Now it's a paved trail with benches and flowers and tall trees. It stretches from the interstate to the pumping station, the service road on one side and modest houses on the other. It measures a mile in one direction, two if you go to and fro, as I do. I should say as we do. Louie is always with me, even if some days it tires him completely. Last weekend he was sprawled across the den floor for hours.

I stepped over him the tenth time and whispered, "Don't die, Louie. Don't ever die. I can't endure it if you die too."

When they first constructed the greenway, there were only a few people walking and running and biking. Some mornings I was nervous being so alone.

What if a crazed ax murderer came my way? What would I do? Who would hear me scream?

Several mornings a tall man in a black hoodie walked past me.

Oh dear, who would see me and save me? How would I ever describe him to the police?

Of course I continued on, even gave him a smile, as if to say please don't hurt me.

One morning I slipped on the wet pavement and landed hard on my butt. I sat there a few minutes telling Louie to stay cool and checking that all my parts were in working order. I was startled by a young girl who walked up behind me pushing a baby in a stroller.

"Are you OK? Can you get up?"

Then a man driving on the service road stopped and asked, "Did you fall? Should I call 911?"

Before I could answer either of them, a lady burst out of her house across the road, clutching her flowered robe around her and shouting, "I saw you fall. I came as fast as I could. Would you like to come in? Do you need a band aid? Do you need to wash up?"

I assured the trio I was fine. I was really just embarrassed. I gathered Louie and forced my wobbly legs to move properly, so that they would be satisfied of my mobility and continue on their way, no doubt with a story to tell about the pitiful lady and her dutiful dog. My faith in mankind was restored.

This morning I passed a couple, two ladies, a mother and daughter I assumed. The daughter seemed to be about my age, maybe younger. The mother seemed about eighty. It'd hard for me to judge ages any more. Besides we have to greet each other six feet apart to stop the corona spread, and I wasn't wearing my glasses. The older lady, the mother, had a huge grin on her face as she greeted Louie. Everyone greets Louie that way. I had to hold his leash tightly so he wouldn't lunge at her. His canine greetings are too vigorous for a lady with a walker. The younger, the daughter, was less friendly. I think she was concentrating on her mother, watching the path at every step and gently holding her arm. I congratulated them on their walk.

"You two are terrific. It's great to see you out here."

The mother replied, "Thank you. I am so happy to be here."

I was jolted. At once I saw only the recent days when Adrian moved about supported by his walker. It's times like this that the sadness overwhelms me. I walked on and reminded myself that my walks need to be my happy times, and I must will the sweet memories that my friends promise are there.

And so I am 16, almost 17. Adrian is in New Orleans. He has left me in Nashville for the summer. I decide that I am going to surprise him when he returns and appear before him completely transformed, slim and trim. Not that I wasn't already, but at 16 I didn't think so. I walked every afternoon the length of Castleman Drive, the street next to my house. It extended from Hillsboro Road to Granny White Pike, about two miles to and fro. I concentrated on my goal.

At every step I spoke out loud," This is for you, A."

What else would a silly teenager in love say? I don't remember if Adrian noticed any difference in me when he returned. I am sure I flaunted myself in front of him. That was my way.

I don't remember either if I noticed my surroundings on those walks. I don't know if I noticed the leafy branches overhead of the giant oak trees, the calm order of the green lawns, the parade of sturdy Tennessee stone houses along the way, or the slow rise and fall of the hill where we sled in the winters. I don't remember but these are the deep memories of those teenage walks that soothe me now.

Now on my morning walks I am not alone. Other coronavirus refugees walk past me, six feet away as directed. Louie walks ahead of me, looking for people to greet. Sometimes I listen to my music on my iPhone. Sometimes I just enjoy the scenery. Always I talk to Adrian.

"Hi A. I see you up there. I know you are watching me. Yes, I locked the door. Yes, I remembered to feed Louie. I wrote about you yesterday. Did you read it? The grandchildren are fine. Jack has your brown leather jacker. He wears it everywhere. He really misses you. Oh, here comes the lady with the walker. I'll tell her hello for you."