The beach is littered with poppers. Not the kind at New Year's Eve parties or the jalapeño stuffed with cheese hor d'oeuvres, but poppers attached to the edges of seaweed. They are thick and bulbous attachments to kelp like the fringe or tassels on a pillow. They are delightful to step on and force out the most satisfying crunchy-pop sound. However, not all poppers are pop-able. Someone beat you to it, or on their way to the shore, the bulbs were deflated.
When I see a round, fresh popper, or a pile of fresh-washed-ashore seaweed, I sometimes change my stride to land a bulls-eye on the popper.
It reminds me of when I was a child walking home from school. Children don't ever just walk home. We imagine, we skip, we tell tall tales about the houses we pass, and we especially don't step on a crack, as it will break your mother's back. And If you step on a line, you'll break her spine. The long walk home became a competition of saving our mother's bones.
At first I think of this age old rhyme as yet another assault on our poor mothers. But no, whatever its origin, the most important person, thing in this world is put on the line--to enhance the importance of the game. I remember taking it seriously. I detected and avoided lines and cracks with diligence--as if it really mattered. I also remember when the rhyme lost its potency. There's no way, this will break my mother's spine.
One thing comes from this childhood memory. Four of my grandchildren sometimes walk home together. In numbers they are safe. They walk along a protected sidewalk, surrounded by trees, back yards, and a little creek. They live in a safe neighborhood. But they walk together.
This fall, they will be in a house too far away to walk. The winding-down walk home will be lost.
My other two elementary-age grandchildren walk to and from school, but never alone.
But, my twelve year old grandson lives only four blocks from middle school. He has been given the luxury, the independence, the contemplative alone moments before and after school. He has time to plan his day. He has time to debrief. He walks in the humidity of late summer; he walks through snow drifts and off-the-lake wind.
Humans depend on contemplation.
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