Monday, March 17, 2014

I am trying to do things that are good for me. Like taking walks.

But, my feet didn't want to tread Monrovia's sidewalks today. So, I found myself in my old, childhood neighborhood nestled up against the foothills of the mountains in all their loveliness. Streets lined with old trees and one-of-a-kind houses with personalities and presence.

I recognized so many of them as I walked with my shadow along familiar roads and streets and courts and avenues. I remembered which houses had occupants who smiled at tiny uniformed Brownie Girl Scouts. I remembered the houses we avoided and the houses that scared me--they always had long, curving driveways with overgrown, unkempt plants or hedges that made it so you couldn't see the front door from the street.

I remember sweet Mrs. Moser with her cotton hair and her springed screen door that snapped back the second you let go. And the old man who lived on Holdman Avenue who had a really gruff voice and was missing two-thirds of his pointer finger. I remember watching his grease-covered hands as he gingerly filled out the cookie order form in all caps, wondering how he lost is finger and if it happened a very long time ago. I remember the family who had a lot of little kids and they were so busy that it always took at least 3 attempts before we found someone home in order to deliver their cookies. I remember the chipper elderly couple who ordered an entire case of Thin Mints every year. I remember how short she was and how tall he was, and how she always seemed to be wearing a teal velvet robe with a zipper that ran all the way down to the ground whenever we stopped by. And every year, they would tell us how they put the Thin Mints in the freezer and ate them all year long until we came back again.

I think I'll make a habit of these hometown walks. I expect they'll do me good.

walking memories
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