A Walker in the Suburbs

When temperatures hit the teens, running is better than walking. This morning I skittered to my office, shortening the seven-minute stroll to less than five. The sun wasn’t up yet and a dreary light filled the void. Cars belched clouds of visible exhaust and the few commuters I passed kept their heads burrowed in their scarves.

I tried to keep it loose but when I’m cold my shoulders bunch and my grip tightens. I cinch in my coat, turn up my collar and dash down the sidewalk. This is not the way to deal with winter, I know. It’s easier when you relax. But today I’m moving quickly, still trying to beat the cold by moving through it as fast as possible.

Winter came in with a vengeance last night. I didn’t feel it as much as I heard it. It hitched a ride on a wild west wind and galloped into our neighborhood in the middle of the night. It roared and growled, set the bamboo a rat-tat-tatting against the house and drove the wind chimes into overdrive.

It’s Arctic air, the weather folks say. I say it’s Winter and it’s angry, ready to take back its time. Enough of this balmy rain, this blooming-time air. This is the real thing. It keeps us inside and drives newly landed birds deep into thickets, where they fluff themselves up to wait it out.

I wait it out, too. Maybe I’ll walk at noontime, when the sun has some power over the cold and the wind has subsided, even a little.

It was late coming, but the last few days of autumn have fulfilled their promise with splashes of last-minute color, with that trademark smell of crushed leaves and with the sound of motors — leaf blowers, chainsaws, lawn mowers.

From its shivery beginning to its balmy conclusion, yesterday was designed to show off what’s left of the reds and yellows and those translucent pinky oranges that always stand out in the woods.

I took my camera out for a walk and it got more exercise than I did. Every few paces I was snapping shots again.

I’m glad to have this record of my stroll. And glad, too, to have these brilliant days of fall before winter makes us monochrome once more.

Autumn moves slowly, which is fine with me. In the woods, the poison ivy flames red against the tree trunks. In our yard, leaves flail and fall and lodge themselves against the fence posts. For some reason, long-dormant potted pepper seeds finally sprout and flower. I may bring the plant in, see if it will bear fruit in January.

As the light fades, we seek body heat, the closeness of each other. (As I write, Copper curls up beside me.) I think, as I walk, about those who once lived more openly on the land, how busy they would be this season, chopping wood, canning fruit, patching cracks.

Here in our suburban haven, I muse about the coming of the cold. So far, so good. Our windows are still open; they don’t yet rattle in the wind. We are suspended in a mellow transition.

The cool nights and warm days of the equinox mean we need neither heating nor air-conditioning, and the air flows freely in and out of the house. The windows are open (or as open as the stink bugs will allow) and what is inside the house is also outside.

I sit now beside an open window, listening to the acorns fall, thinking about the walls that separate us from the outdoors.

This is the time of year I turn my attention to neglected household chores. (If my family reads they will think, really? hmmm…) But even if I don’t complete the task — even if the old curtains and the cluttered basement remain — that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about sweeping the house clean, freshening up the place, even painting.

At least the windows are open. If nothing else our house is being invisibly scoured by the low-humidity air of fall. It is a time of equilibrium; we are open to the air around us.

It has been a busy weekend, and preparing for a lunch guest today shortened my morning walk. I made up for it with a stroll later on.

This evening’s amble was full of cricket chirps, the teasing outline of a faint, almost-full moon and the slight scent of wood smoke. It has been warm but the thin air and the turning leaves are clear signs of the season.

As I neared home I passed an abandoned horse pasture. Some fence panels are broken and the grass is high. My eye flickered over the scene, looking for something, I’m not sure what. It was as I looked again at the path that I caught from a corner of my eye a glint of gold. Was it a butterfly come to visit us once more? Nothing of the kind. It was a yellow leaf fluttering slowly to the ground.