Naomi says she always feels better after a nice, long walk.
She walks with her head up and her nose in the air.
She looks at the plants and the trees and the sky.
And she comes home empty handed.
My neck always hurts after a long walk.
I walk with my head down and my eyes on the ground.
I scan the pavement and sidewalks and curbsides.
And I always come home with treasures.
Tonight, over the course of three miles, I picked up two dimes, one nickel, and six pennies.
I found a small, yellow plastic cowboy.
I picked up a large plastic "E", two No.2 pencils, 6 washers, two large hex nuts, and a nice assortment of rusty nails, bolts, and screws for that 'found object' art piece I've been thinking about.
(I also stepped over or around the following: one very flat armadillo, an equally flat squirrel, one large black boot, a paint roller brush, and the swing-top lid to someone's kitchen trash can.)
I think I would like to keep a little, tiny journal about the things I actually bring home from these treks.
I'd keep the entries simple, like this:
May 16, 2010
One quarter
One nickel (partially obliterated)
Two No.2 pencils (one crushed)
Three rusty nails
Two washers
One golf ball (kicked it home the last six blocks)
And maybe some day, years from now, one of my great, great grandshoots will come across a little, tiny journal in a dusty attic somewhere and spend an entire summer afternoon reading every word.
And wondering if the madness is hereditary.