Novato Living

what Happens Next: Joining life among the early morning walkers

By Eric Baxter
Wednesday, February 7, 2007 1:23 PM PST

McClay Road belongs to the walkers.

In the morning, as SUV's and minivans race back and forth. Headed to school. Carpools. Late for work. Pushing for the early court time. Coffee klatch at Dr. Insomnia's. Oil and lube.

The walkers amble up the road in ones and twos. Walking dogs. Walking themselves. Out for a breath of fresh air. Bundled up against the chill.

The two women who are always talking. Gesticulating. Nodding and smiling. Frowning and shaking their heads. Gloved hands. Steamy exhales dissipated by hand knit scarves.

The older man. Ten years ago not so old. Hair not so white. Doggedly walking past my house. Head down in thought or determination. Perhaps inspired or simply following the doctor's orders to get more exercise. Now, more slowly with a cane. Pausing to look around. Catch his breath. Still lost in his own thoughts as the cars drive by. As the birds flit and flutter. Cats slither across the road. Squirrels start and stop, start and stop, start and stop.

There is the older woman who waits until all the cars have passed. And waits some more before she, with her own cane, carefully crosses the street.

There are the children, hunched under the weight of their backpacks, going to school. Determined little turtles. Sometimes running to catch up. Sometimes singing.

These are the walkers on McClay Road, minus one.

Another man, also older. Retired machinist, I always thought. Although he could have been anything. Doctor, lawyer, taxidermist. I want to say he was walking a dog. But, on reflection, I don't think so. Maybe. But I don't think so.

As he walked, he often stopped. To watch the world speed by in minivans and SUV's. To inspect a newly constructed fence. Bend down and pick something off the street. Look at it. Frown. Toss it back. Just as I noticed him, he noticed me. We never waved or nodded our heads. Just noticed one another. Two watchers watching. Hadn't seen him for a while. Thought maybe his schedule had changed. Noted that mine had. Assumed that just as I continued speeding by in my SUV, he would be watchfully walking. Saw him again on McClay yesterday. Sitting in a wheelchair. Parked on the ramp of a giant van. Oxygen tube snaking out of his nose. His hands gripping the arms of the chair. His face powdery white, sparse hair limp on a balding pate. Mouth open, he stared straight ahead as the driver and an elderly woman talked. They were probably talking about him. Where he was going. What he needed when he got there. When he would be returning home. All the while he sat. Stared straight ahead. Mouth open. As I drove by, he turned his head. Stared at the car. Lifted his eyes and looked directly at me. Unflinchng, I returned his gaze until I passed him.

Half an hour later. After dropping the car off at the mechanic. I became a walker on McClay. The first house I came to was where the older gentleman had been parked in his wheelchair.

I slowed and took it in. The neatly trimmed bushes. No cracks or chips in the paint. A single chair on the front lawn. Everything shipshape and, as nicely maintained homes go, unremarkable.

My heart lifted a little when I saw no ramp up to the front door. Perhaps he still walked. If not down McClay, at least from his front door to the van.

Perhaps he was not leaving but coming home. The attendant pulling him backward into his well-maintained house. The door hissing shut. I wish I could report more. But the curtains were pulled tight. That single empty chair on the lawn told me more than I wanted to know. As I approached my own house, I looked up at the window where I usually look out. The glass reflected the trees, the sky. If I was watching me now, I wouldn't have known it. Pondering this, I walked past my house. Up the road a bit. Just another walker on McClay. Next time, I thought, I'll wave. But, for now, I'll just enjoy the walk.

Eric Baxter lives in Novato and tries very, very hard to do whatever it is he thinks he's doing.

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