My Suburban Escapes

I’ve spent the past three months hiking a trail on which I never thought I’d find myself: The Campaign Trail. I often dream of doing a long stint on The Appalachian, Empire State or Pacific Northwest Trail when the time is right. But The Campaign Trail never crossed my mind. My wish was granted, but perhaps my Jeannie in the Bottle is hard of hearing.  I began on July 26 and hit my finish line on November 2. Indian Summer has come and gone. Fall has come and almost gone. I have been a woman in a trance, plodding along a path leading to parts unknown with a wet trail map in hand and bad shoes. I’m bone weary and exhilarated, just as one should be after months on the A.T.

In many ways this trail resembles any other. There’s a lot of sameness as you move slowly along, but plenty of surprises around the bend. I discovered hidden neighborhoods I never knew existed, fascinating old homes with rich histories into which owners graciously invited us, old tombstones in unlikely places and secret walls made of stone.  There’s gorgeous parkland on Oakland Beach Avenue just west of the bridge over Blind Brook through which you can walk a path to Disbrow and hidden tombstones, complete with a mobile library box for the neighbors. There are connector paths used as shortcuts in many neighborhoods, courtesy of the deer and kids and walkers. There are ponds of standing water EVERYWHERE, reminding us just how much of Rye is Flood Plain. Cool tree houses, carriage houses, yard sculpture and Halloween décor abound. Oh and dogs. Dogs are everywhere. Note to self: hike with Milk Bones.

There’s a huge variety in housing stock – all sizes, shapes and styles. Many appropriately sized homes are being eaten by bigger homes. The food chain rolls on. And there’s a greater variety in jobs than I ever imagined. I’ve met artists, sculptors, a chenille bedspread collector. Architect, former fire chief, teacher, lawyer, doctor. Many are still working from home (as was evidenced by answering the door barefooted in a dress shirt and gym shorts).  I hope this will remain the new normal.  Homes feel inhabited rather than empty. Lived in and loved. Neighbors know each other and act as neighbors should. It’s a silver lining of the pandemic, and the effect is palpable.

I started out feeling really uncomfortable knocking on doors on this trail… intrusive and rude. It goes against the grain to knock or ring a bell and interrupt whatever’s going on inside each home. But as in hiking, the more I did it the more comfortable I became with it. My hiking partner and I broke in our new hiking boots pretty quickly. People were incredibly gracious for the most part, inviting us in or spending time discussing issues which concern them, offering bottles of water, and letting us rest a spell. If they didn’t have time to visit they were honest about why. I must admit it became rather voyeuristic. Who’s behind Door Number Three? There were many people we knew and hadn’t seen in years. All in all it was a bit of an “It’s A Wonderful Life” experience, a stroll through my fourteen years here. I was reminded of things I’d done (and said!) of which I hadn’t thought of in a long time. The four rental houses in which we’ve lived, the Manursing Alligator, full moon floats, getting a group of kayakers stuck in Greenhaven Pond in a storm, a Mardi Gras parade down Purchase Street for my son’s 6^th birthday, a 200-year old tombstone found in Blind Brook after Hurricane Sandy, Christmas caroling with friends while dressed as Santa.  Every neighborhood held another memory for me. I knocked on many a door of former campers who attended Paddle Adventure Camp with me and are now grown. I saw the father of a boy who had joined me and a friend on a camping trip with a passel of kids. He had sliced his arm falling from a rope swing and I had patched him up – many moons ago.  I asked his father about him and he pointed to a grown man and said, “That’s him!”

There is great love for our city here, coupled with passion and razor-sharp intelligence. But I do feel we are missing some basic communication skills.  The left hand doesn’t seem to know what the right hand is doing. My mother-in-law always says we need a Town Crier as in days of yore, standing in the Town Square ringing a bell and yelling out announcements. “HERE YEE HERE YEE! THEODORE  FREMD IS DUG UP…. AGAIN! TAKE ALTERNATE ROUTE THROUGH TRAIN STATION!”  or “18 WHEELER STUCK UNDER TRAIN TRESSLE….AGAIN!” “LE PANETIERRE CLOSING! GET IN THERE STAT!”

Our hike finally ended at the train station, as many do.  Not to return home from a long journey, but to interrupt sleepy commuters on their daily grind by handing them information and asking them to vote.  The station is like a ghost town these days at 6am, livening up a bit around 7/8am. Again I was struck by how gracious people are…how they intuitively understand that this is part of our journey and accept the intrusion with a smile.

It’s been a lovely journey. And as in any, it’s not how well you do or how quickly you finish or whether you win or lose. It’s about the trip along the way. Rest assured: Democracy is alive and well.