Clever Magazine, Vol. V, # " Out for a walk " (www.clevermag.com)

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Out for a walk: checking out the neighborhood

by Helen von Ammon

Attempting to alleviate boredom while visiting relatives in Florida, I took a walk, hugging the edge of the road, as there was no sidewalk. Lakeside homes sprawled over elegant lawns, most protected by fences and gates. As I passed, a grand iron gate opened as if by magic. A long, gold vintage Caddie passed smoothly through and the gates closing behind it without a sound.

I wondered, “When I go to heaven will there be grand iron gates?”

Farther down the road, just inside another elegant custom-designed gate stood a charming life-size jockey of black-painted iron. Wearing his stable’s bright colors, he welcomed visitors with a permanently outstretched hand.

Farther down on the “wrong” side of the road, with no lake in sight, homes were modest and usually well kept. A gazebo in one yard appeared never to enjoy a visitor. Across the road a tacky lean-to was held together by ancient flaking paint. It was the end of the line for old busted up cars, bald tires, weathered wood, metal strips and assorted cast-off toilet fixtures.

The nice houses had front porches supporting never-used white iron furniture. Curiously, none of the houses had a path through the tidy lawn to a front door. A narrow, well worn trail led to a back or side door. Many of these yards had fences protecting a pair of dogs from the rare, dangerous human venturing actually to walk the road.

Before I came within shouting distance, two dogs conversed behind a stout metal fence. “Well, looky here. Imagine a human so poor she has to walk the road! She looks harmless but let’s scare the bejeepers out of her anyway.”

Their hysterical yapping clearly stated I was free hamburger. Leaving these valiant protectors, I picked up my pace and started across the street. Sprinting toward me in the middle of the road, a small dog of unknown heritage was exercising his master. Nipping in circles on a Kibble high, he jumped an Olympic record, almost reaching my well-padded backside.

Herman, taking his time spoke sweetly. “Sprocket, darling, come here. I don’t think the lady likes us.” Sprocket, exasperated, barked, “Herman! haven’t I taught you to stop bothering me when I’m working? Now go take a lie-down while I harass this stranger.” Wishing I had taken attack dog training while with the FBI, I turned, staring him down. Herman picked up his varmint, and mercifully walked in the opposite direction.

After that narrow escape, once again I tried enjoying the quiet, sunny afternoon, but my reverie was interrupted by nearby chattering, like an audio-tape on rewind. The source was a snow-white squirrel, unique to this Florida area. Flirting with me, he flicked his absurdly long, luxurious tail, his lustrous brown eyes assessing whether I was impressed. I was.

Showing off, he raced maniacally round and around the thick trunk while ascending a tall tree. Then headfirst, part way down the tree, he stared at me chattering at top speed. “Why have you not thrown me a nut, or a flower bulb? You humans wonder how I find your fancy flower bulbs. It’s hard work digging them up to eat later. Sometimes I have to dig up half your garden before I find my stash. And, you know perfectly well I love birdseed. It’s a lot of trouble robbing bird feeders several times a day. It gets really tiresome and takes a lot of energy. But you humans don’t care. You just watch us for amusement. Not even a peanut for me!”

He flicked his bushy tail for emphasis, clearly disgusted at my parsimoniousness. With a lightning-quick turn and he raced up the tree. Then the cheeky squirrel jumped from the tree trunk to a slender swaying high branch. Looking down, satisfied that I was impressed, he repeated his high wire ballet. More white flashes among the leaves. Lickety-split he was out of sight down the aerial highway.

Great trees bordered the road part way. The area then became an impenetrable, jungle-like tangle of vines, creeping kudzu, dense brush and palmetto. This vegetation surrounded a swamp which extended beyond my sight line. A great blue heron flapped off majestically, followed by a single
snowy egret.

My hostess’s unimposing cottage was across the road from the swamp. No view nor lake access, but the swamp, day and night, was far more interesting, a world of its own. A place I dared not explore.

One warm afternoon a turtle waddled across the road. Moving slowly to the center of our lawn, she began digging vigorously. Reaching a satisfactory depth, she backed into the hole and laid several white eggs. Replacing the dirt exactly as she had found it, she left no trace of her maternal act. Stretching her wrinkly neck, she turned around. With incredible courage and misplaced trust, she retraced her route safely back to the swamp.

After dark the swamp came alive, holding me spellbound. Nightly I walked across the road and visited the swamp, never venturing closer than the edge of the road. Late one evening a friend drove by. “Ellen, what are you doing out here? Can I give you a ride?”

“No thank you. I’m listening to night sounds.” Looking at me incredulously, “W-e-l-l-l-l, OK, if you’re sure you’re all right...” She drove off shaking her head in wonder. At my first step on the grass, the euphonious swamp creatures stopped on cue. Ignorant of snake habits, I stood very still, hoping they were all asleep. The forest chorus resumed. Amorous frogs pleaded, Spring Peepers peeping, cicadas clicking, birds twittering. High in a tree nearby but invisible, an owl's querulous call remained unrequited. The concert was the same but each night I heard them differently.

Summer nights sometimes brought an aerial ballet of fireflies to the swamp. As a child of the Great Depression, fireflies are remembered as free enchantment. At the swamp, I was delighted that fireflies still made mysterious magic. I longed to bottle these sights and sounds of the swamp, uncorking them later in my world so far away in place, time and spirit.