Where Memories Live

The trail stretched ahead, inviting me in like an old friend. Cedar needles had been falling there for generations, muffling footsteps until even old knees seemed quieter. Harold used to say the trees were making the ground softer for the old hikers like us. We walked the Cedar Ridge Trail every August on our anniversary, for fifty-three summers, rain or shine. Summer wasn't over until we'd walked Cedar Ridge.

I continued, even after I had lost my Harold. He’s the one who got me into this hiking business, anyway. At first, I just admired his sturdy, tanned legs and his enthusiasm for the outdoors. Those cedars watched us fall in love, and later they watched us get married.

I came to love the outdoors nearly as much as Harold, nearly, I say, because I still had a thing about the snakes and bugs. Just a few yards from my back door, a path took me to the trail we loved so much. My shoulders shivered with anticipation, the small pack shifting a bit. I’d eat a sandwich at our favorite spot and enjoy something we always did, like the free spirit I was.

The wind whispered high above the trees, carrying the Tok Tok Tok of a busy woodpecker. The spicy scent of cedar wrapped around me when I stepped into a familiar world.

For a moment, I just closed my eyes.

It was like the number-two pencils I used to chew on as a child, only stronger, better.

We didn’t give up the hike after I had children; we just went about it a little differently. Those hikes, slower, shorter, filled with the joy of sharing the wonder with our little ones.

Those little ones had somehow grown into interfering busybodies with opinions about everything. Lately, hovering around me, trying to get me to change my ways. “Get rid of my throw-rugs,” the daughter- in- law had scolded, “They are a tripping hazard.” “Give up the car keys,” my son had admonished, before you hurt someone, or yourself.” What really surprised me, though, was their suggestion that I should give up the cabin and the life I built here.

It’s not that I hadn’t given some thought to those things, but hearing them say it the way young people do nowadays had rattled my blood pressure up despite medication. I had braided those throw rugs myself. Some of them contained the old clothes they had worn as kids, and I’m just supposed to take them out to a thrift store?

That day, I had stared down at the rug under my feet, their voices yammering in my ears. I saw the pink weaving and bobbing through it. That was my baby girl’s favorite dress. And the bright red peeping through was Bo’s winter jacket, my son’s beloved dog. They didn’t seem to have any sense of history or sentimental value these days. They couldn’t understand why I still wanted my old rugs, or why I still wanted to walk that Cedar trail.

People think memories live in photographs. Harold and I thought they lived in places.

I hadn’t gone far when my boot hung up on a root nearly face-planting me, as the kids say, into the matted cedar trail. I looked around and down and pointed my walking stick at an offending root.

“You weren’t there fifty-three years ago!” I scolded, shaking a bit.

Was it there last year?

I left earlier than usual this morning. If those children were trying to parent me, I was the rebellious teenager.

Much later, I smiled in satisfaction as I sat on the edge of a fallen Nurse log along the trail. It had always been our first stop.

Now, this old log was giving itself up to the young cedars springing from it, and in such a state of decline, it wouldn’t be a bench much longer.

That was my first notion of change: where would I sit next year?

My agitated thoughts crowded out the sounds of birds and forest rustles.

Those grown-up little ones of mine had finally got my dander up. I had more or less kicked them right out of the cabin. If the broom had been nearby, I might have even used that.

“Too steep,” my son had said.

“Too lonely,” said the daughter-in-law who had only been out there once.

And the nerve of my daughter, who had mentioned it to my doctor! He used words like “balance and precaution” at my last visit, which are what doctors say when they’re trying to convince you that staying home is somehow better than living. I’m sure they were back at their places plotting and planning, swapping texts with each other on their damn phones. My little ones had somehow become parents to their own mother.

I never asked for their thoughts or worries along those lines. I've been caring for myself just fine my whole adult life.

Mind you, I’d probably do the same thing if they were seventy-six and I was fifty. That didn’t make them right.

I still loved them.

I just didn’t like them very much this week.

It was my summer.

It was my hike.

Sitting there in my musings, I felt a bug crawl across my hand, flapping and waving it frantically. I tried to jump up without falling over, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” I shouted and steadied myself.

“Lordy,” I continued softer, “I know this is your home, but could you not crawl on me!” Harold wasn’t there to gently smile and put his arms around me. I waited until my breath calmed and then started to walk again. I heard a squirrel scolding nearby and glared about until I realized it wasn’t chiding me.

When had I gotten so cantankerous? Somehow, everything just felt harder.

When I reached our usual second stop, it was our lookout where the trail was close to a deep ravine and a sweet river that ran at its bottom. It was a perfect place to kiss, and that was what Harold and I had done, a lot! We basked in the filtered sunlight, marveled at the view, and ate our sandwiches. Somehow, the trees had grown bigger and taller around, blocking more of the view, making it a little more dangerous to look over the edge. The ground slanted more than usual towards that edge, and my walking stick slipped sideways, sending me tottering towards the drop-off, unable to stop.

Both hands slapped around the trunk of a sturdy cedar, stopping my forward motion, leaving my heart pounding wildly. The soil and pebbles continued to fall over the drop, my stick nearly going along too.

Something like this had never happened before.

If Harold had been here, we'd probably have both laughed after I caught my breath.

If anyone were with me now, fear wouldn’t be pinching my heart.

I edged my stick closer with one foot, the cedar helping me balance, and picked it up.

“Hope you didn’t see that, Harold,” I breathed out, feeling prickly with sweat.

I turned back to our sitting rock, which we always rested on, and there on the ground lay a crumpled Frito chip bag and an empty Red Bull can.

That shocked me even more.

Occasionally, we would find litter on the trail, but for the most part, people were respectful of nature here.

This felt like a slap in the face!

“Good Heavens Mother of Mercy!” fell out of my mouth angrily as I carefully sat down.

This too was an unwelcome change.

Here I was cussing, sneaking away from my children like, like, I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

This wasn’t the hike I wanted.

That saying, “Everything changes,” kept circling through my mind.

It's not like I didn’t know that, for God's sake; getting older cements that truth for you.

It just shouldn’t happen here, at our place.

My shoulders slumped; I could stop, turn around, and go home.

Would it feel like a failure, like giving in?

My children would love that, I thought bitterly.

Could just, “Suck it up, buttercup,” as Harold always said.

After sitting a while longer, eventually hunger made me unwrap the sandwich that Harold would have insisted I eat.

“You never did let me sulk on an empty stomach,” I said to no one in particular.

Once finished, I picked up the Red Bull can and the Frito bag because Harold and I always did. “Some people’s children,” I muttered

The erosion on the hilltop had carved a slant, the one that had nearly had me; I could see that clearly from my rock seat. Trees were doing what trees do; they weren’t trying to take away the view. They were becoming what they were meant to be, even if it wasn’t convenient to me, except for the one that saved my old ass, I thought. That story is going with me to the grave.

The summit was still ahead, waiting as patiently as it always had.

So, I hefted my pack and completed my trail walk carefully, proud of the accomplishment but also a little chastised.

Once home, I set the pack on the counter, put the Red Bull into recycling, and noticed the light blinking on my old message machine. I knew who it was. A smile quirked at the edge of my lips.

I ignored it and dialed a different number.

“Katie,” I said when I heard a voice on the other end, “How’s my favorite granddaughter today?” A smile grew as I listened. Later, I asked, “How would you like to go with me next year on my annual Cedar Trail Walk?”

After we hung up the phone, I thought about washing and hanging my small door rugs on the wall, like I’d seen in a home-style magazine at the doctor's office.

Maybe they belonged hanging on the wall.

Maybe they belonged on the floor.

Either way... they were staying.