In addition to writing . . .

by Pat Laster

Besides writing at the (ahem) writers’ colony this year, I decided to add another activity: a daily walk. With the ups and downs, hills and valleys, twists and turns in this town, I was pretty sure I would work up (walk up) an elevated heart rate.
DAY ONE: Dress: bluejeans, t-shirt, old walking shoes. Route: up the rocky eroded path across from the Colony to the Crescent Hotel parking lot, thence to the street winding down in front of St. Elizabeth’s Church to Spring Street, down Spring St. to #515, my home-away-from-home. Huffing, puffing up the hill (noticing rocks and roots I’d like to take back to Couchwood), catching my breath downhill and on the level street to “home.” Time: 25 minutes.
DAY TWO: Dress: knit tapered pants, a long-tailed, long-sleeved Henderson Reddie t-shirt that showed stomach/hip protrusions. Goal-within-a-goal: by the end of two weeks, no protrusions. Shoes had sprung a flapping sole; jury-rigged with a rubber band for the moment. Route: the reverse of yesterday, except downward on Spring Street instead of the rocky decline. Huffing and puffing on the upward climb, jogging on the downward stretch. Time: 25 minutes.
DAY THREE: Dress: same as yesterday; I didn’t even look for the aforesaid protrusions; I knew they were still there. Route: Of all the times I’ve been a resident here, I’d never ventured further down Polk Street--on the back side of the Colony--than to the Farm House across Dairy Hollow Road which at one time sheltered three more writers.
So, I decided to walk down Dairy Hollow Road which I calculated as north. Good. Not much traffic. Level. Nondescript dwellings, unkempt yards, and then a pasture-like area. Two deer bounded across the road from the forest to the green space.
On and on I walked. I knew there was a private or church school not far. Sure enough, there it was, at the T in the road. Dairy Hollow turned right and climbed severely. The other way climbed more gently so I took it. Besides, it was the direction “home.”
Anderson Road, it was, and it led to the ubiquitous incline, so I slowed. By that time, the rubber band had popped off and my right sole was flapping.
Folks, this was hard climbing. Especially for a 70-something who only walked to the mailbox or the pear tree or to the shed during the day. I’d been walking for thirty minutes. Ahead, I heard dogs and hoped against hope they were penned. They were, but my! they were large. And loud. I slogged on up and around a bend. Houses appeared. I finally saw a human and hailed him. “Any shortcut to the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked.
He pointed as he talked. “Up here a’ways is a street to the left; it jogs more to the left to Tad’s, then to the Joy Motel . . . Don’t go to the highway,” he said. I thanked him, said, yes, I knew my way now, but lawsy me! I was at the junction of 62W, 62B and Scenic Route 62. I was mile upon curvy mile from home!
But at least I knew where home was. And it was still daylight though nearly six p.m. I walked on sidewalks not two feet from some houses. The autumn/Halloween decorations and chrysanthemums were everywhere. A white bush-flower that I knew but couldn’t put a name to except “Aberystwrth” (the Welsh tune to “Jesus, Lover of my Soul”) grew alongside the paths.
Finally, 45 minutes into my daily walk/slog, I remembered the plant name: ageratum. I had grown the blue kind many years ago.
One hour after I began walking, I stepped onto Writers Colony grounds. I’d made a complete circle. I deserved a treat, I did. So I gathered up food from the residents’ fridge (pre-ordered) and made the last few steps uphill to my suite. My treat: ice cream.
Forget losing the protrusions. I deserve this. #

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press. Check out my poetry blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com, and my first novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon, etc.