“Walking”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

My friend Janis lives near Lake Erie.

Her house is what locals in my area often refer to as a ‘Century Home.’ One at least 100 years old, or more. In genteel places like Chardon or Burton, this would mean some form of recognition from the community. Perhaps a plaque placed near the entrance door. But no such accolades adorn her rural abode. It is simply a hand-me-down from her grandmother. One rich with memories that outweigh any sort of cultural history.

Because her residence is situated on a country lane south of the lake traffic, we are able to walk and converse without many distractions. In summer months this means plenty of time spent breathing the fragrances of nature and enjoying a bit of exercise. I have to use a cane for these adventures, because of bad knees and a wounded left hip. But the benefit is worth battling my own creaky disposition.

In this quiet setting, Janis usually talks about workplace happenings, followed by episodes of her favorite television series, ‘The Walking Dead.’ Then, with her mind wandering, she begins to ask questions. These verbal keys unlock the door to genuine ‘deep’ conversation:

“There is an old guy at work who keeps talking about Trump,” she observes. “Drain the swamp. Get on his train. Make America great again!”

I nod without speaking.

“You don’t babble things like that!” she says.

“Ummm… no,” I agree.

“You aren’t a Trumper?” she laughs.

“No,” I reply. “Not part of the regular political paradigm on any level. I tend to think along lines not proscribed by the major parties. Conservative with resources, liberal with individual freedom. Unconcerned with controlling anything else.”

“Not a sheeple?” she laughs again.

“Right!” I cheer.

“So what am I?” she wonders aloud.

From anyone else, such a comment might simply reflect a lack of genuine interest in the political system. But Janis is a complicated woman. Nothing about her can be termed ‘typical’ in any way. So I am intrigued by the question.

“Democrat? Republican? None of the above?” I ask.

She shakes her head, making the sunlight sparkle from her long, red hair. “Granny never said a lot about politics. I don’t vote. They all seem like hucksters to me. Just leave me alone and let me live my life.”

“That almost sounds… Libertarian,” I grin.

“A what-it-tarian?” she snorts.

“Libertarian,” I repeat. “Someone who believes in the two-sided coin of individual liberty and individual responsibility. Do your own thing. Don’t get in the way of someone else doing theirs. What my second wife would express with the Wiccan Creed. ‘Harm none, do what ye will.’”

“That sounds right,” she nods. “So, I’m a Wiccan Libertarian.”

I laugh out loud. “Are you?”

“I don’t know!” she cries.

“It is astounding to me that in a diverse and rich nation like America, we had Trump and Mrs. Clinton running for office,” I declare. “Surely there could have been a better option. Bernie Sanders made it clear that voters were seeking a different choice, for example. Even the election of Trump was a clear statement of discontent among the electorate. Some were willing to simply throw a grenade in the voting booth and watch things explode.”

“The old guy at work loves him,” she says.

“Even with all the controversy?” I wonder.

“He thinks every bad story is fake news,” she continues. “Snowflakes everywhere. Snowflakes! Snowflakes! I do not care. I just want him to shut up.”

“Right,” I say. “It must give you a headache.”

“I just want to finish my day at work so I can go home and have my Cherry Coke and watch my soap operas!” she explains.

“Soap operas?” I gasp.

“Yes!” she says.

I am out of breath. “You watch soap operas… and zombie shows like TWD?”

“They are ‘walkers’ not zombies,” she scolds. “Get it right.”

“Walkers… like we are out walking today?” I tease.

“A different kind of walker, you silly goose!” she frowns. “Stop being an ass.”

A gaggle of wild geese fly overhead. I look up with surprise. “Are you going to tell them to stop being asses, too?”

Janis narrows her eyes. “Stop getting your man-panties in a bunch. I like what I like. I don’t have to explain it or defend it. I like Daryl Dixon killing walkers with his crossbow. I also like Bob Ross painting fluffy clouds. Okay? I collect skulls and bones and… Beanie Babies.”

I am out of breath again. “You go your own way.”

“Yes!” she shouts. “Another old guy I see at work tries to preach to me about his religion. I like him but don’t want to hear that stuff. I think it is all made up.”

I stop walking for a moment and close my eyes. “That… is a very personal choice. Whether or not to have faith in the unseen and if so, what form that faith may take… there are many different interpretations of that concept.”

“This old guy thinks women should wear a dress like June Cleaver and stay in the kitchen,” she complains. “Not me! Not meeeeee!”

Words spill out of my mouth before there is time to control their arrival. “I think you would look cute in a 50’s dress. And a string of pearls.”

“BITE ME!” she growls.

“Just an observation,” I apologize.

“Men are predators!” she says. “Dogs in heat! All of you!”

I lean on my cane, pausing once again. “Well, I’m an old dog. A lame dog. It’s the front porch for me. No chasing anything or anyone.”

“That’s why I like you,” she giggles, shifting moods. “You are a well-behaved dog.”

“Years of practice,” I observe.

We have reached the end of her road. She notices a group of frogs jumping into water standing in the ditch by our feet. I am amused by the sight of a Pabst Blue Ribbon can, hidden in the grass. The sun is beginning to drop low, in the sky.

“We can walk again tomorrow,” she smiles. “You need to keep moving. My ‘Work Mom’ says it will keep you from being stuck in a wheelchair. I don’t want to push you up and down this road.”

As always, I wonder what is going on inside her head. But my mouth is back under control. “I am glad you care!”

“Care?” she squawks. “That would mean having feelings. Yucky yuck. I DON’T HAVE THOSE!”

“Of course not,” I agree.

Our walk is over. But tomorrow will bring another chance to wander and converse.

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