In the spring I put a new battery in an old watch that counts steps. By counting steps the little device helped me become accountable to myself for a hefty dose of daily exercise. I set the thing on 8000 steps because, who knows? why? why not? and I found that this has been enough for a bit of the positive change that more serious athletes report. Seeing the dial come around to 100% of my daily goal is good for morale, yes, but I feel more energy too.
There are many small pleasures in walking 8000 steps through this part of town each day. I know where the sunlight makes the river look fancy in the morning. I keep track of the refinements our neighborhood sculptor is adding to the tall, proudly winged angel that stands outside his shop’s garage door. I met an elder who owns a heavy camera with a long dark lens, and when I asked him where a person can see his photographs, he shook his head. Not even on Instagram? No, not even on Instagram, where so many photographers, including some professionals, share and show off their work.
I know some of the places our region’s snake-necked, stick-figure blue-gray herons tend to stand beside the river as they keep an eye out for small fish that really should be more careful where they swim. I know where some of the most beautiful and some of the most alarming graffiti shows itself on cement bridge pillars and foundations not far from the water. I’ve seen neighborhood elders bring their offspring down to the water to learn how to fish. Any luck? I asked one young boy, and he reached into his bucket to proudly show me a handsome little bass. Walking the neighborhood, I saw a big muscular fellow kiss his sweetie goodbye one morning. During the kiss, she held a cigarette in one hand and he had a pistol holstered on his hip. So I guess South Bend is an open kiss, open carry kind of town.
One day this week, I squeezed in a final walk just before dusk. Going southwest toward the river, in the last block before Mishawaka Avenue, I heard a commotion, a man yelling. A dark dog, a white dog, and then a little dog ran across the yard and into the street. The white dog crossed in front of a passing car, which bumped him on the hip. I heard the thump and saw the dog’s compact running body jostled by the impact. There was more yelling, and the white dog headed away from the scene, past me, along the front yards and sidewalks. I kept an eye on him, but even better, a young neighbor, just back from the gym, got out of his car. He took stock of the situation and decided to make himself responsible for the white dog. That is, he started trotting after the pup. I followed, walking. The dog didn’t seem to be limping, but it wasn’t running very fast either. Eventually, well down the second block, dog and young neighbor disappeared around the corner. Fingers crossed, I hoped the frightened little one would not disappear into the maze of back yards on either side. Happily, as I turned the corner, the two of them stopped on someone’s lawn. The dog was winded. Our athletic young neighbor seemed no worse for wear, having run for two long blocks. Better him than me.
In time the dog’s owner caught up, and he stretched out on the grass beside his dog, stroking and comforting it. Long white hair, big paws, going to be a big dog someday, but still a pup and, I thought, rather subdued by the whole experience. They’re going to need to take him to the vet for a checkup. Before the owner carried his puppy home in his arms, he thanked us both, but I told him the young man, whose name was Daniel, deserved the credit. He had stepped forward and made himself accountable.
Music: "Wrong Foot Forward" by Flook
