My hand holds a leash that is stretched to its limit, as our nine-year old miniature schnauzer, Bailey, turns her body and forcefully angles her way to the first tree we've encountered. Bailey only weighs 19 pounds, but the chances of me stopping her from her appointed duty are somewhere between none and the Vikings having better luck in getting to next year's Super Bowl. So there's no point in moving on until she's ready.
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A gentle pull of the leash brings my focus back to the ground as Bailey is moving on, her nose inches from the ground. She snorts as she sweeps the area for fresh scents of squirrels, rabbits and other dogs. Her present track has her aiming toward a scattering of white powder on the edge of the sidewalk.
"Leave it, Bailey," I tell her, wanting to move beyond the perimeter of our next-door neighbor's property. I wouldn't put it past the old man to put down some rat poison as a deterrent to dogs peeing in his yard. Ever since his epileptic verbal attack two winters ago, I've made a point to stay clear of him -- and this morning will be no different. Is it my imagination or do I see a bent over, shadowy figure looking through his window?
With a strong tug, I head north toward the end of the block and away from the house. We have places to go, and trees to pee on.
* * * * *
Liz and I have been walking in our south side La Crosse neighborhood for more years than I can remember. It's something that started shortly after we moved into our house and our second son was born. We would put Sean in a stroller to calm him down and get him to sleep, thinking it was cheaper than driving in a car. We quickly found ourselves exploring the area that would become our home for the next 25 plus years.
For those of you interested, here's a little history of our neighborhood.
During the war years, and before there were houses -- between 1930 to 1950 -- the southern edge of our neighborhood was basically a large open field. This 80 acre field was the site of La Crosse's first airport, called Salzer Field. It wasn't much of an airport, just a dirt track used for aerobatic shows, military landings and a daily mail route between the Twin Cities and Chicago. When the city decided to make improvements to the airport (boundary lights and a beacon), they abandoned the site and moved it to its current location on French Island.
The same grounds were also used for periodic performances of the Ringling Brothers Circus and Sells-Gray Circus when they came to town. Imagine -- twelve acres of tents, three-hundred performers, five-hundred horses and twenty-five elephants, just blocks from our house!
I've always thought it was a great neighborhood -- a typical middle-class neighborhood with medium-sized 1940 and 1950 post-war houses, each with 1 1/2 stories, 3 bedrooms 1 1/2 bathrooms and a detached garage. Today, it is a neighborhood where you can safely walk or take a bike to school without worry. In fact, our sons walked to elementary, middle and high school and never needed a car or ride. It was a rare day -- raining or snowing -- that one of us needed to drop them off at school. Nearby is the Village Shopping Center, Festival Foods , Erickson Pool and The Cinema within a 15 minute radius making it the center of many family friendly activities. There's even a small park located in the middle of the block -- Verchota Park -- where we have played football or jumped on a swing to soar so high in the air that the legs of the swing set literally pull out of the ground.
Through the years, our neighborhood has seen families come and go -- when we moved in, we were the new family with young children. Today life has come full circle. Liz and I are the empty nesters, surrounded by households with young kids riding bikes and playing in the front yard.
As was the case during most the last half century, you could always find neighbors outside and stop to talk about family, politics and sports. It was the kind of neighborhood where you could leave a set of keys with the neighbor in case you locked yourself out of the house, or wanted someone to check on things while you were on vacation.
They were good neighbors. I remember our neighbor across the street, Woody, helping Sean and I retrieve a baseball that had fallen through a sewer grate; Dee, our neighbor to the south ran a muffler shop and always came out to talk whenever he saw me working in the yard; and Gladys who was always interested in what we were doing to our flower beds. If ever there was a neighbor who would lean across the fence wanting to talk, it was Gladys. They were neighbors who helped us in so many ways. I can't walk through the neighborhood today without thinking about them at some point.
Unfortunately, our neighbors today aren't as friendly as Woody, Dee or Gladys. And the children don't play kick the can or ghost in the graveyard when it gets dark. Society in general seem to be less neighborly for a variety of reasons, including television, social media and safety concerns, and I think our lives are poorer because of it.
The changing makeup of our neighborhood hasn't stopped me from walking, however. While my memories of past neighbors are like ghosts that wander through nearby yards, a few neighbors remain that allow those memories to live on.
* * * * *
I have always loved early morning walks. You see a gentler side to life as the city wakes up from its deep slumber. There's a feeling that you can conquer anything. The day is full of promise as you think out solutions to problems that have been keeping you up at night.
Today's challenge is coordinating the logistics of getting Liz's nieces, who split time between Ireland and Saudi Arabia, to La Crosse. From out of the blue, Liz gets a call from her brother, who wants his youngest girls to spend some time in La Crosse. They've never been to the states before, so we are planning things to do for the two weeks they are here. On a morning like this, the solution is only a few houses away: meet them half way in Madison.
(As a child, I remember a neighbor who had served many years in the Navy. Every morning, I would see him through his kitchen window sitting at the table drinking a cup of (coffee?). As a young boy I didn't think much of it, but today I wonder if he ever thought of his time at war. Did he miss his wife who had passed away from cancer? Was his early morning routine formed during the war, or did his body hurt so much that he could no longer sleep?. As I grow older, I find the later to be more plausible.)
We are waiting at the curb as a car rumbles past, avoiding potholes that have become as big as Bailey. Once it is gone, we cross the street and head up a slight incline before Bailey finds interest in a neighbor's fence post. As I wait, I see a familiar figure -- a high school student -- with his hood pulled over his head, switching to the other sidewalk. It never fails -- I don't know if he's afraid of Bailey, or me. I can walk on either side, and he will walk on the other.
On most days, the 1 to 1 1/2 mile walk will last thirty minutes, unless we encounter rain or heavy snow from the night before. Then it's a quick once-around the block and back in the house.
Today, I think we will walk over to where the church grounds are under construction to see what progress has been made. I tell Bailey that we have an hour before I have to go to work, so let's enjoy every step. She looks up at me, as though she understands.
* * * * *
I wonder how many people have never really explored their neighborhood? They jump in their cars and drive away. I realize people are busy with school, sports and other things. But for too many people, their view of the neighborhood exists out the front window when they're not watching television. I don't mean to tell people how to live their lives, but they're missing out.
For me, walking slows things down and let's me look at the houses, schools and businesses up close. You see their flaws (pealing paint and weeds), their beauty (a trellis full of cascading wisteria flowers) and sometimes the people who live or work there (many have lived in the same house all their lives). It also lets you hear the sounds of the neighborhood. The swish, swish of sprinklers, the welcoming barks of dogs who wish they were joining us, or the whistle of a distant train hauling goods to another city.
In the years we have been walking, many things have changed, but some are as consistent as the rising of the sun over the bluffs to our east.
. Our encounters with middle school and high school kids walking to school, eyes glued to their cell phones, oblivious to cars backing out of a driveway or the waging tail of a certain miniature schnauzer.
. The assembly of people arriving for seven o'clock mass at Mary, Mother of the Church Parish (accompanied by the floating, long serenades of ringing bells announcing its start).
. The lonely sighting of an empty yellow school bus, waiting at Harry Spence School, ready to start its route to pick up children eager for another day of school. As we approach, the bus driver lowers her "People" magazine long enough to smile and acknowledge our passage.
. The meeting of a familiar rescue dog, Miles, and his foster owner, Curt. Someday, he is going to tell me that he has decided to keep him. The longer he keeps him, the stronger the bond.
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. The sight of mourning doves fleeing their evening perch, whistling through the air as their flight feathers create an audible, high-pitched sound.
. The precise arrival of engineers in the parking lot near Trane Company. I hypothesize that each one of them is contemplating a better lunchbox design than the obligatory one they carry with them into their office.
. Seeing our neighbor's aging golden lab, laying in the grass, patiently watching us with the wisdom that nothing is going to interrupt his early morning meditation. I don't look forward to the day he won't be there to greet us.
Some of these occurrences are good, others not so much. Either way, I would miss them if I couldn't take my daily walk through the neighborhood.
* * * * *
We are waiting at another busy intersection where a constant stream of cars is heading to work.
I estimate that Bailey and I walk over 400 miles every year. If someone my height averages 2,100 steps every mile, then I'll be walking over 840,000 steps in 2018. Or 3,360,000 dog steps based on Bailey's short legs. Whew! No wonder my feet hurt every day!
Obviously, the biggest benefit to walking is improved health. A relaxing walk every day could lead to fewer pills to lower your blood pressure. I read somewhere that walking will reduce your risk of death from cardiovascular causes by 46% (if walking with someone as slow as Bailey). If you can walk faster, without stops, you can reduce that risk by up to 53%.
But there are other reasons to walk.
Maybe we could understand some of the problems our nation face if we aired our differences during a walk around the neighborhood with a friend or spouse (instead of listening to the morning news). I'm thinking marriages would also benefit with a little more talk about work and family during a walk -- get to know your spouse again and why you fell in love all those years ago.
And of course getting to know your neighborhood is good for developing your sense of belonging. Of having an identity.
While my neighborhood isn't what it used to be -- I still miss Gladys and Woody -- I will never forget my time here. The memories of our house and those around us will be with me when we retire and move to someplace else. I know this because I still remember my parent's neighborhood.
I had awesome times playing basketball and walking down the street on stilts. "Kick the Can" was great fun and I can still remember how strange is was lying in the grass of my neighbor's yard swatting mosquitos and hoping that itch wasn't coming from poison ivy. The view of my parent's house from three houses over was different. The lights looked brighter and the house was too small for six people. Almost like it wasn't the same place.
I think walking though my neighborhood with Bailey has given me that familiar childhood feeling. Unless you get out and view the world -- or neighborhood -- things will always look the same.
