I began to ferret out adventure on the mean streets of Rye, exploring on foot the sights I’d seen only as blurs from my ever-moving SUV. I started walking everywhere. And I discovered so much more. I’d rushed past an old fallen log on the edge of a salt marsh hundreds of times, thinking how much it looked like an alligator. So I turned it into one. I painted the body green, the mouth red, hammered in nails for teeth and glued on plastic eyes. I made myself a “gator repair kit” and loaded up kids from our many different neighborhoods to keep her in check and dress her up on holidays. For ten years, we rotated costumes for the New Year, Valentine’s Day, Mardi Gras, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, July Fourth, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. She finally succumbed to the elements, but not before she became a calendar and a touchstone for the town. Taking action, albeit small, had brought my joy back.
I increased my parameters. I bought a cheap kayak at Costco and started exploring the waterways around town. As summer faded to fall and my friends played paddle, I paddled the brook. This is what I knew and what made me happy. I wore my waders and strapped pruning shears to my bow to clear a path through the dense overgrowth. I could go where no man had gone before (at high tide), often fending off attacking swans – an absolutely terrifying experience – scarier to me than snakes. There were no snakes or mosquito swarms like in the South. No turtles either, which I found odd. I was perfectly safe…..
Leave a Reply