October Walk
The damp stench of late summer, composting into itself, is gone. In their place, the cooler air carries the handiwork of cutting boards and stoves, sautéing and roasting, vegetable matter pulled from the earth and tossed in a pan. Just weeks ago, it was all about cold noodles and salads, watermelon eaten over the sink, a chunk of tomato sprinkled with salt. But there was a frost warning the other night and people have been drawn inside to stand in front of an open flame, stirring the alchemy of a new season. Early in my walk, garlic permeates one block; toward the end of my journey it’s steak, the juicy redness floating under the changing maples.
The light is golden, so much so that I can fool myself that I’m in Northern California instead of Iowa. A softness to everything. A sense of possibility. The sensuality of a 1970s album cover. A few blocks down from my house, a man kneels down outside a house, which has been covered in little patches of caulk for weeks. I smile at the magic act he’s midway through, the house transformed from drab beige to canary yellow.
In the canopy above, an owl is calling its four syllables. I walk my ears until I find what seems to be the tree where the sound is coming from. Craning my gaze into the branches, I try to adjust my eyes to the bird’s form. Something flies past, weighty and silent. I assume that must be the sound maker and now it’s moved on, so I, too, move on. But a block later, I hear it – woo WOO woo woo – from the same tree. Its call continues, reaching across the neighborhood, though I assume it’s sense of the geography is not one of pavement and cement walks but of the treetops, some of which are still the dense, dark green of late summer, others already turned neon orange.
Passing the communal gardens, I’m surprised to see that everything has been pulled up, flatted, shredded. No more sunflowers or tomato trellises or bean poles. My garden is still producing, so this strikes me as unfortunate. It was supposed to freeze two nights ago, and I guess the city, which owns the gardens, is prudent, just as they are with the city pool that gets drained at Labor Day, no matter how warm the days still are. The calendar says fall, so we fall.
Rounding a corner, I’m met with a chorus of political yard signs. The usual for this area—all Democratic, including some for offices I rare think about, like secretary of agriculture. There is one yard, though, that hosts a yearlong hand-painted sign with the word “socialism” crossed out in red. Next to it now are Republican signs for governor, senate, state offices, local offices, all marching mightily against the blue wave of the neighbors. I wonder about living on this kind of island and if there’s ever a desire to flee, or if it’s fulfilling to be the dissenter.
When I get to the path along the creek, a trio of kids comes past on bikes. They’re pumping hard, riding one handed with ice creams in the opposite paw. It’s been warm, but the sun is going down and the temperature will change quickly. Their ice creams and shorts will soon exchanged for hot baths and soup suppers. They give me a quick smile and race on just as I notice a friend coming toward me. He pulls his bike to the side of the path to talk. When I ask how he is, his eyes change, filled with emotion and incredulity. He tells me of an array of major life events that snap me into the moment with awe and humility. He’s in the thick of it. My heart bursts open. I’m pulled into a space that my day of housework and napping and puttering has not encouraged. But I’m here. With him in his hurt and awe and openness to life’s unpredictability. I hold my naked arms to my chest, now shivering against the growing chill. He talks, and I hold him in my gaze. When his story is finally spent, I step forward to embrace him. We agree that life is so unknown, so sweet, so bitter, and then we head in opposite directions, each diving into our own night. I hope I’ll see him before the thicket of winter sets in.
