Todd R. Nelson is a former teacher in Penobscot. His essay collections, “Cold Spell” and
“The Land Between the Rivers,” are published by Down East Books.
It is very early. Before pancakes and Cheerios, before the adults have had coffee or truly opened their eyes, before the fog has lifted from the meadow, it is time for a walk.
The dew is in the funnel spider hammocks. The woodland nightshift is clocking out; the day shift beginning. So there’s a chance to see a deer or porcupine finishing their grazing. The birds are the soundtrack: red-eyed vireo, catbird, bobolink, song sparrows are in voice.
And in spot after spot, as cousins Freya and Malcolm and I wander the road, there is a recollection or story. I am having the recollection; they are forming them for the next visit and its walks on this road.
“Here is the very tree where we saw a porcupine up in the branches nibbling,” I say, as we pass the black locust in my neighbor’s yard. I had sent Freya a photo as a “report of nature,” our ritual correspondence. Malcolm concurs.
“And sometimes, when you see a branch or some leaves on the ground, it means ‘Look up.’ There’s a chance the porcupine is still at work.” There is a branch and leaves on the road. A calling card.
Stop, look and listen. There is always a critter watching or intending to appear. The wildlife is as intent on a Freya and Malcolm-spotting as vice versa … I like to think.
We too are an audience.
The old apple trees are laden with fruit auguring a bountiful pie crop. The kids take a bite. Too soon, hard and tart. The deer no doubt await the drops, and each year I see a few bucks at my ancient trees savoring the fruit at night.
Here is a handful of blueberries. Yum. And here is a raspberry patch that could attract a bear, which could enjoy the fruit for breakfast, unless we poach them first. We will share. And this stretch of our walk could become The Place Where we Saw a Bear Last Summer … I like to think.
“Look up. See the barren branches? Porcupines have been there,” I explain. “And
right there, in the front yard of the green house, I saw a young porcupine just last week.”
“And right here in this spot is where I always see a deer. Or the deer sees me. You
never know,” I reflect, “how long a deer has been watching you before it melts back into
the woods.”
Here is the branch where an owl likes to perch, and here one where an owl nonchalantly held my gaze for several minutes before flying back to other perches in the woods. Here’s where the skunk scurried by; here where the young buck jumped the fence; here where another porcupine eyed my dog as I kept him at bay. Here’s where the milkweeds are that monarchs love. Here’s where a snake warmed itself on the tarmac. Hear the bullfrogs in the neighbor’s pond?
The walk down these familiar paths reviews our personal history; a family story; a gallery of prior walks and discoveries and eras. But with a young walker it is always fresh, a stocking of their core memory banks.
My pockets fill with pebbles plucked by little fingers from the verge of the road — quartz, circle rocks, the rare and precious double circle rocks, fake slate. A walk is a collection.
My own formative walks come to mind, as I hope Freya and Malcolm’s will, and I am at the old farm in New Hampshire purchased by my grandparents in the 1950s, still in original condition. The barn had a rope swing, the horse stalls were nibbled and the planks worn by generations of hooves. I can summon the fragrance of the old beams.
There was a hay loft, and a well in the dooryard with a pump handle. In the photo album, I see that it was my grandparents who drilled a modern well for family visits.
My own parents bought an A frame camp farther north, with a dirt road I recall strolling, looking and listening, summer and winter, no doubt their attempt to start new memories and echo the old ones of their camping youths.
And now at my house, in the evening, after s’mores and before bed, when the owls and coyotes are commencing their night shift, we can take another walk and listen far into the dark distance for the story of moonlight and fireflies.