The Place To Be

Like any good community in this great state of New York, the town in which I work offers 6 or 7 places to get pizza. Some are of the fancier brick oven variety, in which a waiter or waitress brings you a large pie on a separate platter. Others are your basic hole-in-the-wall family-owned pizzerias, where you choose from a marvelous variety of options behind a glass display before placing your order at the counter. One or two offer both the restaurant and quick fix options.

I haven't been to my favorite one in a while, as at a little over two miles, it's too far to walk. Ever since the weather started shifting toward Spring, even marginally, I've resolved to be healthy and walk every single day. Even the rain didn't stop me, as an umbrella and determination were all I needed.

It's a Catholic tradition to abstain from eating meat on Fridays during the season of Lent leading up to Easter. I try my best to observe this practice, but there hasn't been a year in which I didn't forget at least once. I'm sorry to say that, as some Catholics do, I've made up my own exceptions on those occasions, like “Pepperoni is a topping; it's not technically meat.” or “Chinese food doesn't count.” I can't say that these “exceptions” make any sense. At the heart of it, I believe that God knows better than anyone that to err is human, and He can forgive an honest oversight.

Lent went by quickly this year. As I set out on Good Friday for lunch, I realized this was the first time I made it through 40 days without having meat on Fridays. I also was successful in giving up something I enjoy for those 40 days, another are in which I've faltered in the past. I don't know that going this long without a single Frosty is that big of a gesture or will help my soul in the long run, but on a personal level I'm glad my will power is improving.

The nearest pizzeria is about half a mile from my office, maybe a ten minute walk. The furthest and best one I've only driven to, and my lunch hour doesn't afford me the time to make the journey and back. About a mile-and-a-half away is another little place, one that takes about 20 minutes or more to reach on foot. I made the journey once before, and upon telling my father, who grew up in the area where I now work, he suggested a shortcut.

I had stuck to main roads, avoiding the quiet backstreets. I know my way around, sometimes driving home down those side avenues, but I'm not sure what I feared. Would another pedestrian attack me? Would a rabid dog or an angry goose chase me? My imagination is not always literal in conveying danger. Sometimes a little voice suggests I take a long way around without any explanation. I suspect it has its origins in my childhood ”dogless route”. Later in life I'd find friends who grew up in areas where “knifeless” or “gangless routes” were the best way to get home from school, and realize the jingling of a dog collar wasn't the great threat I perceived it to be.

It was extremely windy on Friday, part of my journey taking me along an open area by a beach. I weighed the benefits of the fresh air on my current cold against the brutal chill, and the added presence of an unimpeded sun tipped the balance in favor of the further destination.

Everything changed once I left the main road. I walked along a pond, past observation decks and open woods. As though someone flipped a switch, the sounds of civilization were replaced by chirping birds and rustling leaves. The sidewalk ran along an old, open wood post fence, past two ponds to a stream. The stream feeding these ponds rain along the inside of the sidewalk, and as I passed the park and began walking past people's houses, I realized each person's driveway was a small bridge.

Can you imagine? Can you imagine such paradise, to step out your front door each morning and hear the trickle of a stream beneath your driveway, the rustling of wildlife? I'm a long way off still from owning my first home, as a new car has become more of a priority, and I'm definitely a long way off from a home in that sort of neighborhood. But I knew, someday, that this was the type of place where I wanted to be. Civilization was but a few minutes away, but here was a wonderful haven.

My dad neglected to tell me until I got home how steep the hill would be on his shortcut, but I made better time walking downhill back to the office. I was even feeling better, breathing easier with no aches, and my heart was glad at my father's continued improvement from his illness. My mom meanwhile is starting to develop a cough, and may be in for the same rough journey we've been on.

I love the longer days, the sun still shining long after I've arrived home from work. A nap before dinner seemed the perfect addition to all the other healthy things I've been doing, but when I awoke an hour later the sun had set and the house had grown cold, a little too cold. Even now I still have aches and chills, and wonder if the exertion earlier caused a relapse. My one comfort is my cat Chirp, whom I thought was ignoring me the other day, even calling him a name because he was keeping his distance now and I had stayed by his side when he was ill last month. Both Friday morning, and Friday evening before supper, I awoke with a small weight on my chest, and my eyes adjusted to see the cat resting on and studying me. I guess he senses I'm not feeling well after all, or perhaps he was just cold. Either way, I took it as the former, though I didn't let him stay for long. I don't think what I have is contagious to animals, but I'd rather not risk it.

Someday I'll be healthy and, if not wealthy, I'll have the wealth of a home with a stream in the front yard. For now, I have the wealth of family and pets. For now, this is the place to be.