Slowing Down

The Fine Art of Taking the Long Way Home

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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.

A Broader Kind of Day

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Welcome back to the Front Porch, friends.

Have you ever noticed how much faster time seems to move as we get older?

When I was a boy, waiting for Christmas seemed to take approximately three years. Summer vacation seemed to last forever. Until we got to the middle of August and started back-to-school shopping and reality set in, of course. Birthdays took their sweet time getting around to us. And school days could occasionally demonstrate an impressive ability to stop the clock altogether.

Now?

January arrives, I turn around twice, and somebody is talking about Labor Day.

Same clocks. Same sixty minutes in an hour. Same twenty-four hours in a day.

So what happened?

Let’s talk about that. Because maybe the clock isn’t the only thing that determines how long a day feels.

 

 

 

 

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The Little Tin That Changed the Supper Table

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And the Quiet Idea That Made It Possible

There are certain things that sit so plainly on a shelf, one might pass them by without a second thought.

A small tin, for instance.

Nothing remarkable in its appearance — no flourish, no fuss — merely a label, a lid, and the promise of something warm inside.

And yet, now and again, a closer look reveals that even the simplest things carry a story worth telling.

In the closing years of the last century, a company began offering what was then considered a rather fine and hearty dish — Beefsteak Tomato Soup.

By all accounts, it was a very good soup. Filling, flavourful, and welcome on the table.

But like most foods of that time, it came with its share of inconveniences — its weight, for one, made the cost of transport high, along with the need to prepare it fully before it ever reached the home.

Then, in 1897, someone had a different sort of idea.

Not louder. Not grander.

Just . . . . better, in a practical way.

A chemist by the name of Dr. John T. Dorrance developed a method of condensing soup — removing much of the water content before it was sealed in its tin.

What this meant, in practical terms, was rather remarkable:

Smaller tins
Lower cost to ship
Longer keeping

And the ability for families to prepare a warm meal simply by adding water or milk at home.

It was not merely a new product — it was an all together new way of thinking about food on the household table.

A smaller tin meant less cost, so more could be carried.
A lower price meant more could afford it.
A simpler preparation meant less time at the stove after a work-filled day, and more time at the table.

And before long, what was once a new and occasional thing became part of everyday life.

By these early years of the new century — including our own Gazette year of 1904 — such tins were beginning to appear more regularly on the shelves of mercantiles and general stores, often for around ten cents apiece.

A modest price at the time.

But one that placed a warm, dependable meal within easy reach.

There is something worth noticing in that.

Not every improvement arrives with great fanfare.

Some come quietly — set down on a wooden shelf, waiting to be tried.

And once tried, they have a way of staying.

You may notice something familiar on the shelves in this week’s “Hearth & Holler Gazette.”

And should you do so, you will now know a little more of the story behind it.

‘Til next time then, and hoping to see you on Saturday . . . .

— Jim  (and Red!)

P.S. from Little Red Bear —After a long day roaming the hills up and down in search of honey, a warm supper that asks only for water, a pot, and a little good sense sounds to me like one of mankind’s better ideas.

Pen-and-ink illustrations created with the assistance of AI and lovingly styled for Little Red Bear Land.

Front Porch Notes — Just Something I Set Down

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Just Something I Set Down

Winter has a way of narrowing the world.

The view out the window grows smaller. Daylight slips away early, like it has someplace else to be. Air sharpens, carrying that clean, honest cold that wakes you up if you let it.

I noticed that this week while sitting in my rocking chair by the bedroom window, tea cooling nearby because I had forgotten to drink it, as usual. The predicted snow had come in overnight — the kind that smooths everything over and makes the world look newly ironed. No tracks yet. No hurry. Just quiet.

A flash of red landed briefly in the bare branches across the way — a cardinal, bright as a dropped mitten against the snow. He stayed just long enough to make his point, then moved on.

A flicker of motion caught my eye.

A red-headed woodpecker worked his way up and down the branches of the honey locust outside my window, tapping, pausing, tapping again, as if checking a long list of winter responsibilities. His bright head flashed against the pale morning, all business and purpose.

Below him, the mourning doves were already at work.

They are always there — steady, unassuming, moving along the ground beneath the feeders just as they always do. While other birds dart and flutter, the doves walk rather than hop, heads bobbing gently, as if keeping time to a tune only they can hear.

Near the base of the feeder, the chipmunk made a brief appearance — a quick inspection, a pause, and then gone again, carrying on as if winter were merely an inconvenience.

The feeder itself soon filled — sparrows first, then juncos in their tidy grey coats, and finally the chickadees, darting in and out as if late for an appointment. It swayed slightly with their comings and goings, a small sign of life in an otherwise still morning.

Later, it was time to bundle up and take my little chihuahua outside. She approached the snow with caution, as if it might suddenly do something unexpected, then set about her business with dignity intact. I lingered longer than necessary after we finished, breathing in the winter air. I have always loved this season — the way it clears things out, the way it feels honest and bracing, the way it asks you to be present and alive.

But winter asks a lot of us. Patience, for one. A willingness to slow down whether we want to or not. Sometimes it asks us to stay put, to wait things out, to trust that what looks dormant is not finished — only resting.

And in return, winter offers these quiet gifts — a cardinal passing through, a determined woodpecker at work, the steady presence of mourning doves beneath the feeder, the clean breath of cold air that fills your lungs and reminds you that you are still very much here.

The world, it seems, has not stopped. It has simply lowered its voice.

Somewhere nearby, a bird called out — sharp and clear — and for a moment it felt like an answer, though I had not asked a question.

Winter will pass. It always does. But while it is here, it offers this small, steady reassurance — life continues, quietly and faithfully, right outside the window.

Sometimes, that is more than enough.

We need only look.

— Jim  (and Red!)

 

While the Year Is Still New

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Easing out of December and taking the new year one unhurried day at a time

While the year is still new, there is a softness to the days that does not last long. The holidays have packed themselves away, and the calendar has turned without yet asking much of us. Mornings arrive more gently. Even the house seems to move at a slower pace, as though it, too, is willing to linger a moment before the year begins in earnest.

Porches are swept clean. Decorations are carefully taken down and set aside. The lights that remain are fewer, but somehow warmer for it. Routines return slowly — politely — without knocking too loudly. Most of the calendar is still blank, and there is comfort in that. Room to move. Room to breathe.

By the time January reaches its first full week, the talk of New Year’s resolutions has begun to hum a little louder. Lists are made. Promises are weighed. Some folks feel the pull to hurry — to decide everything at once, or to prove something before the year has truly had time to arrive.

But there is no bell to beat here.

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