As part of my new fitness regimen, I've introduced light exercise. Light exercise entails leisurely walks, bicycling for errands, and the like. I'll increase the exercise load in the coming months.

My favorite light exercise activity so far is a walk from Custom Box Service, through the nearby housing development (circa 1973), down to the little house where Jeremy and Jennifer used to live. The round trip is two miles.

My first walk was last Thursday, a bright and sunny day. Here's what I wrote about it:

The sun seems almost impotent — bright and blazing, but unable to shed much warmth on this late winter day. I'm taking a walk through the country neighborhood, past houses I've not been inside for two decades. I used to play with the kids that lived in them, but that was long ago.

The air is alive with sounds, especially of birdsong. I wish I had some sort of field recording equipment with me. Instead, I have my digital camera, which seems like a burden, so I surreptitiously ditch it in a neighbor's empty mailbox. I'll pick it up on the way back.

A small dog is yapping in somebody's backyard. I cannot see the dog, but I can hear it for most of my walk: yap yap yap. In another backyard, a man is pruning fruit trees. His flock of chickens follows him as he moves.

There is a tremendous noise at the Lams' house. There's a crew back in the woods, lopping limbs from the oaks. (Perhaps they're dealing with damage from the ice storm.) A chainsaw buzzes and whines. I wonder if either Brent or Torey are there. I've never noticed before, but the Lams have the nicest lot in this small country housing development. They actually own two lots side-by-side. They've left one undeveloped for pastureland. (I wonder: did they always own that lot, and then purchase the house from the Gundersons in order to have two contiguous pieces of land?) Both lots back up against the stand of oaks. We used to play in those trees as kids, building forts, shooting BB guns, playing "life-sized D&D".

Next door is the house where Tim used to live. I can't remember Tim's last name. He wrestled. I see him around town from time-to-time. Torey and I once played Monopoly with Tim and his brothers in that big old house. There's a dog on the front porch now — a big rust-colored hound of some sort — making a racket as it plays with a bone.

Further on, a crew is getting off for lunch. Several pickup trucks full of Mexican workers pull out of the drive and into the road, music oompahing through closed windows. Engines rev as they speed away, probably on their way to the Lone Elder Store for deep-fried food.

I come at last to the top of the hill, to the house where Jeremy and Jennifer used to live. Can I really call it the top of a hill, though? It's really one edge of a small valley, a dale (or a dell). What's the correct term for the edge of a dale? A hill rises from the surrounding ground level, right? So this can't be the top of a hill. It's an inverted hill. I think about this for a while as I look down into the valley.

The sounds are different on the return trip.

At another little nursery, just before Tim's house, there are now three Mexican women chattering to each other as they work in the field. They're listening to Radio Unica (a Mexican talk radio network that seems to feature lots of women calling in and crying about their spouses — I can't understand enough Spanish to really know what they're saying). The women stop talking as they see me pass, and then resume their chattering when I'm out of sight. I marvel how even at walking speed, the Doppler effect is observable with the radio.

The dog is no longer on the porch, and neither is his bone.

The chainsaws are quiet in the Lams' woods. I can hear people calling to each other. Somebody chop-chops with an axe. A limb cracks and falls.

Next door, two kids are playing in the backyard. I cannot see them, but I can hear them squealing and laughing. An adult's voice murmurs something to them. Across the street, a Home Depot fountain bubbles on a concrete driveway. It looks out of place.

The small dog is still yapping, as it has been on this entire walk.

My camera is still in the mailbox, as I knew it would be. It's a shame, really — there was nothing to photograph, but there were oh-so-many sounds I would have liked to record.

As I started my walk, the birds were chirping and chattering, taking advantage of a break in the day-long drizzle. The road was wet. The air was misty. Smoke from nearby chimneys created a thin layer of oaky smell all around.

By the time I had reached the edge of the dale, it had begun to rain again, but lightly. I was wearing my brown Pendleton hat, and so I was treated to the pat-pat of rain on the brim, the tempo increasing as the rain fell harder. (When I returned to the office, I was a little surprised to realize that the hat was made of 100% wool — the smell of wet wool was all around.)

I counted my steps on the return trip and was shocked to find that I made exactly 2000 paces in the mile journey.

I'll have to go for another walk tomorrow.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Carpe Diem   I'm not trying to learn a foreign language for the sake of conversation. I want to learn Latin because it'll help me become a better reader.

2002 — Chronic   When I was young I was often sick. Sick many times during the course of a year, and sick for long periods. As an adult, I've been much more fortunate. This winter, however, I've been sick four times now. Five?