Day 4 - The Things He Likely Carries
b.r.crandall
He carries one of those little dogs that causes my dog to gnarl, but they’ve become better friends over the years. I know he served in Vietnam and he has lots of cars he like to work on in his lawn. He makes fences out of bamboo and the branches he finds along the roads. We don’t know each other except in passing, but he, his house, and his very tiny dog have always been friendly. There’s a story there, I tell myself, and I want to know it, especially as he barricades his home with trees, bushes, and forts from the scraps that fall from highway semis.
We carried a conversation today, together. As I passed his house I noticed a new dragon shooting fire out of driftwood left by one of his stone-built sculptures. “You got me,” I said to him through the green. “It’s brilliant, and my Grannie Annie would definitely approve.”
See, I carry my grandmother deep in my heart, with her flies that she used to swat and place into a collection of ceramic frogs. She likely was carried by my grandfather (and Rosie) during WWII when he sailed the Pacific Ocean. And I’m sure they both carried my mother during the 50s and 60s when she was coming up.
But I don’t carry much while hiking, because the other hours each day are spent staring at a screen and using phalanges to write, plan, assess, and review. I do carry my thoughts gently home, though. There’s always something to do with them.
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