The Fine Art of Taking the Long Way Home
When I had my little Chihuahua Allie, there was a walk I particularly enjoyed.
It took us up the main street, past a long row of honeysuckle bushes bordering the sidewalk at a corner house, then around onto Clay Avenue.
It was a perfectly ordinary route.
Which is to say, there was usually something worth seeing.
A Black Walnut tree stood at the corner property. In late Summer and Autumn, its green-husked walnuts lay scattered across the ground. Some had already received considerable attention from squirrels and other neighbors whose dining arrangements were less formal than ours.
I liked looking at what they had left behind.
Someone had been busy.
Allie and I were merely passing through the workplace.
In Spring, the honeysuckle gave us another reason to go that way.
Its fragrance reached the sidewalk before we had finished approaching it. The bushes continued around the corner, and farther along came a row of lilacs with a lovely fragrance of their own.
There were days when that corner deserved a longer visit than the schedule had allowed.
Fortunately, a dog understands that a walk may contain several appointments nobody wrote down.
Farther up Clay were beautiful two-story homes, with carefully tended landscaping and decorations that changed with the holidays. Somebody had taken time choosing what to plant, what to set beside a doorway, and how to welcome the season.
I enjoyed seeing what was different.
In Autumn, I watched the ground for leaves.
Maple. Sweetgum. Pin Oak. Sycamore.
Different shapes, different colors, different ways of catching my attention.
A particularly beautiful leaf might come home for a friend’s collection. Pine cones went to another friend.
That gave the walk a pleasant little extension. Something noticed along the sidewalk became something to share after I got home.
“I thought you might like this.”
A small thing to say, holding a leaf.
A good thing to have a reason to say.
Of course, those sidewalks required attention in the practical sense, too. Walnuts can roll beneath a foot. Wet leaves can be slippery. A twig in the wrong place needs stepping around.
I would never suggest that enjoying the scenery means ignoring where we are putting our feet.
But there was room along that walk for both kinds of attention.
I could watch my step and still admire the tree.
Sometimes I think hurry takes more from us than we realize.
We know where we are going. We have worked out how long it should take. Everything between here and there becomes something to get past.
The familiar places are especially easy to overlook.
We have seen that house.
We know that corner.
We walked beneath that tree yesterday.
Yet yesterday’s tree may have had considerably more green in it. Someone may have put pumpkins beside the steps this morning. A neighbor we usually wave to may have time for a conversation today.
Familiarity can persuade us there is nothing left to discover.
Autumn is very good at proving otherwise.
Its changes arrive a few leaves at a time, then suddenly seem to have happened all at once. We remark that the season went quickly, and perhaps it did.
Perhaps we were also occupied elsewhere.
I understand being occupied. There are errands, appointments, unfinished jobs, and things that cannot wait simply because a maple has decided to be magnificent.
Still, I would like to make a little room for the maple.
Taking the long way home need not mean adding distance.
For those of us whose walking has become more limited, that matters. A few extra minutes on a bench may do it. A pause beside a window. A little longer looking across the yard before going inside.
We can give a familiar place another look from wherever we happen to be.
And we can do the same for the people in it.
Stop long enough to hear the answer after asking how someone is doing. Notice the flowers a neighbor has been tending. Remember who would enjoy a pine cone or a particularly fine leaf.
There is a kind of companionship in paying attention. We begin carrying little reminders of one another as we go about the day.
I think back fondly on those walks with Allie.
The honeysuckle and lilacs belong to Spring in my memory. The green walnuts and gathered leaves belong to the turning year. The houses along Clay had something to offer in every season.
We went out for a walk.
Often, I came home with something I wanted someone else to see.
That seems a fine return for taking a little longer.
Till next time then —
Jim (and Red!)
A Little Red Bear P.S.
I once took the long way home because I thought I remembered a blackberry patch.
I remembered correctly.
Getting home took somewhat longer after that.
— Red 🐾
Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . . lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.
