Taking the Time to Lay Down Some Tracks

I had a very pleasant morning with my son. I made chocolate chip pancakes. We watched a British show about training dogs. We walked our Lab and listened to the sounds of birds and cicadas along the way. We talked about mockingbirds. We paused to admire our favorite tree alongside the stream that flows into the one where James Taylor played as a boy.

Walking with a dog along a path takes me back to my grandfather’s retirement haven in Meade County on the Ohio River. He and I would start the day around five-thirty, sitting on stumps and drinking coffee under a large oak. Then we’d take his dog, a big ole slobbery shepherd mix, for a walk along trails with enough rabbits to keep Cesar showing off for hours. My grandfather pointed out the finer nuances of berry and tree identification along the way. By eight o’clock we’d be back at the house where my grandfather would scramble eggs and fry bacon. My Italian grandmother would still be sleeping when we spread her elderberry jam on our biscuits.

Now I can’t walk in the woods without remembering that mystical place where decades of river travel floated up from the steep banks to the house, on the notes from the Belle’s calliope.