Walk on

 

There was a black and white photo on my Grandma’s wall. In the Depression a man was taking photos and walking door to door to sell them. The photo was of an old zig zag split rail fence above a dirt road. The bare branches of trees were silhouetted across the ridge line. 

Grandpa said he bought it because it was a photo of the most important road in his life. It was the road he walked every day to school. It was the road he walked to court grandma and to look for a farm to buy so he could marry. His children also walked that road, two miles to school. 

My other grandma, the one in North Carolina, I only knew as an old woman crippled by a stroke. But she said when she was a girl she believed she walked over every road in the state of Virginia. I can’t even imagine that. 

People used to walk more. My mom would laugh about her own short time of courting. The Airman who would become my father walked the two miles from base to save gas rations. They would walk off down the street for time alone. Then she would end up having to use gas anyway, to get him back to base before curfew. 

Even in my time as a child, I walked to the bus stop everyday, a mile up and down our steep hillsides. On weekends and in summers, I would walk as far to see friends or go to the pool. From there we would often take longer walks. A mile down to the little store and then wander along the creek beds for an afternoon before heading the mile back up to home. Or two miles up the mountain behind my house. There, high above Malibu, we would gaze out over the ocean. My grandkids are highly skeptical of the freedom I took for granted. 

I’ve walked to raise money for cancer and AIDS. I’ve walked for miles at Disneyland and to carry beach gear across wide stretches of sand. I have friends who have walked farther. One friend walked all the way up Mount Kilimanjaro last year.

I stared in wonder at the moon one summer, to see if it looked any different. I had just seen the broadcast of those famous first steps. 

I have been thinking about walking a lot lately. Not doing much of it, mind you, but thinking about it. Seems like it’s always too hot or too cold. Kids get dropped and picked up, it isn’t safe to let them wander alone. The walks around my suburban neighborhood are unappealing boredom. Natural beauty costs gas and entry fees. A special trip to a museum or theme park can leave me exhausted and in pain because I’m out of the habit. 

But I look out on the way the world is going and think I need some better shoes, and to remember some old songs. They sang songs while they marched for freedom, for voting rights. They marched on Washington for peace and rights for women. They walked and marched and sang, because sometimes standing up for something just isn’t enough. Sometimes you need to do some serious walking.