A WALK IN THE PARK

This day, November 13, year 2007 is a week and a half before Thanksgiving, and I discovered that the weather report was correct. It was going to be a lovely autumn day with bright sunshine and no clouds and an expected unseasonal sixty degrees. Sometimes in the past we have had early blizzards, giving us a taste of Christmas. Because of the warm summer, many of the trees still had all of their leaves still on the branches, some a golden yellow, others a bright red and others every color you could think of, including green.

This day I had an early morning patient, and won't have another one until half past six in the evening, so I won't be through until eight o'clock. I quickly got through the morning paper and the early emails and sat there, twiddling my thumbs, wondering what I was going to do the rest of the day. This is my life, you know, and I should not waste it dawdling and doing nothing. It seemed obvious that I should take a walk, since the day was so fine, but Shirley wasn't here to accompany me. She was going for her followup mammogram and an appointment with her surgeon downtown.

I have not yet got into the habit of a daily 'constitutional,' despite repeated studies that show that regular moderate exercise is essential to brain and body functioning and health, and the best antidote to the perils of diabetes and dementia. If my brain is not working, there is no point to my being around, and I want to be around so that I won't miss what is happening in the world. And I would hate it if the world did not have the ongoing benefit of my two cents.

Shirley has got me walking as much as two miles at a stretch. She did this by convincing me the other day, no, urging me, to WALK to the hardware store instead of drive. I thought of my aching feet, but I know I would be better off extending myself rather than retreating to the call of the sedentary life. Two miles! A mile there and a mile back. We did it, and it wasn't half bad. It was doable.

I realized another two mile walk, by myself, could be accomplished if I would walk to the park at the foot of Three Mile Drive, which used to be called Three Mile Park, but now it is just Patterson Park, named after a beneficial mayor of times past. It is a passive park, with trees, benches and a boardwalk that faces Lake St. Clair. It is the beginning of Lake St. Clair which opens up from the Detroit River, and Canada is on the other side, the suburbs of Windsor, Ontario.

The walk wasn't too bad; my dogs were not quite barking. I sat on a bench for a while and enjoyed the photograph I didn't take because I left my camera home. Being an amateur photographer you are always taking pictures in your mind. I framed a compositional scene with the tall grasses in the foreground, the deep blue lake shimmering in the sun in mid ground, and in the distance the opposite shore and the horizon. My view did not include the few sailboats led light bulbs for home still on the lake and the one guy paddling a kayak. He was smiling for his lady who had a camera, and I took another imaginary picture of her taking a picture of her grinning husband a few feet off the shore of Lake St. Clair. It seemed he was only in it for the photo. He wasn't going anywhere either.

I looked to see if my name and Shirley's was still on the plaque of contributors to the Grosse Pointe Park Foundation which was devoted to improving the park. Ah, yes, it was still there. So I had a sense of pride and ownership being there, even though our names were one of many recorded there in bronze.

I proceeded to the other end of the boardwalk where I spied some swings and a slide. In the distance I could see that somebody was swinging quite expertly, going almost horizontal on the upswing. As I approached I could see it was a young man with a knit hat, probably a teenager, full of youthful energy, obviously enjoying the day better than I could. I thought I would resist the temptation to swing myself. I had not been on one for over sixty years. But I couldn't. I found myself seeing if I could swing, wondering if I could actually swing, having long forgotten how.

I started slowly and realized I was a pendulum which naturally moved back and forth. After a short while I could see that if on the back swing I bent my knees, I would swing a little farther back. And if I extended my legs on the forward swing, I went a little farther. After a while, I was actually swinging, and I convinced myself not to try to compete with the young man, but there's no doubt the instinct was there. And after a while, I was enjoying myself swinging, realizing I still must have swinging in my memory bank, etched in some of my ancient neural pathways. A little like riding a bicycle, I suppose.

I had my headphones on and was listening to Canada radio, the classical music station, and the announcer was telling of a lovely duet by Buxtehude. Now I like Buxtehude. I discovered him when I discovered Bach organ music when I was a teenager. Buxtehude came even before Bach, and Bach admired him too and therefore also composed some heavy duty organ music. But the announcer said that this was a piano and violin duet, gentle and lovely, anything but heavy and overwhelming. And he added a personal note that the violinist, Pinchas Zukerman, used to kid him that he was an admirer of BUXTA HOODAH. And he repeated various amusing pronunciations, such as Buxta HOOOO' dah and BUXTA' hoodeh.

Walking home I got a kick out of the story because I got off on his name too, and loved to impress people with my knowledge of Buxtehude and my vigorous pronunciation of his name, almost as if I must know the man well, and appreciate ALL of his music, and know it all by heart. I dearly love to impress people. It doesn't happen often enough, though.

Be that as it may, the walk home, listening to the lovely duet of piano and violin from over four hundred years ago, was a sheer delight and I didn't let my barking dogs bother me one minute. The walk it the park was not only doable, but memorable.

I didn't bring my camera, so I don't have a picture.