I lived for two decades in one of central Arkansas' most hospitable neighborhoods for those who like the outdoors.
The lure of a brand-new house with close proximity to work and play--and far fewer hills to navigate--tempted my human/canine family to pack up, tell our friends in Hillcrest we'll see them on First Thursdays, and head north. We figured it would be pleasant enough, but we weren't expecting what we found.
Walking west along the Arkansas River Trail from Rockwater Boulevard to the rocky bluffs below North Little Rock's Emerald Park at 6 a.m. in mid-spring, when the light is coming up and the fog is lifting, is flat-out magical. A morning outing along Kavanaugh Boulevard in my former stomping grounds is certainly agreeable, especially in Knoop Park and along Allsopp Park. But not like this.
The dogs, who grew up in an urban environment, are understandably thrilled to see a small armadillo race across the path in front of them. Geese strut self-importantly along the side of the path in groups of two or four, honking but otherwise ignoring the fierce little terriers, who are incensed at the gall of these birds to not bow down before their imagined canine superiority.
A bit farther west, two deer study our odd foursome as we move past them. The serenity of the backwater along the bicycle trail is palpable, especially after a weekend of coping with the physical and mental uproar of moving.
(Note to those considering rehoming from 2,400 square feet to 1,700 square feet: No matter how much downsizing you do, it's not enough. After hours of trying to incorporate all your worldly goods into less-spacious digs, you'll be ready to dispose of entire sets of china, half of your wardrobe, dining room chairs, winter boots, half-full bottles of tequila, and anything else that requires effort to pick up.)
Forget about all that for now. On the River Trail in spring, trees are blooming. Cardinals flit across dense privet thickets. Ducks, presumably disinterested in worldly goods, paddle quietly in the backwater, as impervious to the dogs' presence as the geese are. Fat rabbits bolt from the shrubbery. Bike riders zoom by after politely announcing "on your left" as they approach and pass. Well, most of them are polite. We haven't been run over yet.
What a way to start the day.
The lure of lakes and rivers and oceans had never been all that compelling to me. After just a few days of early-morning and sunset outings along the river, I get it. The glowing light, the breeze, the changing colors of the water, the changes on its surface from glassy to choppy.
It's so seductive that after only a few days I've abandoned my longtime habit of listening to the news on KUAR-FM 89.1 for a couple of hours each morning. Now I listen to birdsong.
It was hard at first to head back to a lovely yet at that point unlovable mess of a house that wasn't yet in order. There were a few tall wardrobe boxes in the new bedroom that had been neatly packed and labeled, but after a while any container that wasn't taped up at the old house became a repository for a curious mix of anything that needed to be conveyed, from artwork to towels to a waffle iron to kitchen knives to rawhide chews for the dogs.
There were no clear paths through stacks of books, piles of dirty laundry (the new washer and dryer work, but nobody has read the manual on how to start them), bins of mysterious cables and other electronic gear, and an unbelievable quantity of gift wrap and ribbons. Like we give out presents regularly?
Among items still undiscovered after a week: Lids to pots and pans, the little Keurig coffee maker, our nice towels (the raggedly ones are in plain sight) and spare sets of car keys.
Even now my closet, although semi-organized, doesn't yet offer the familiarity of the old one (the faded green hoodie I want is probably beneath the also-missing bunny-printed flannel sheets, maybe in a crate in the garage). I can't find my skin moisturizer, nor do I know how to work the overhead heater in my bathroom.
And on the second day at the new house, a crucial item disappeared: My dog Audi. She's scared of thunderstorms, and what with doors being left open to better drag in those accursed boxes, we thought she'd bolted out in terror after a hot flash of lightning. We spent hours searching for her, along with an army of incredibly supportive new neighbors.
Turns out she had crawled into a deep kitchen cabinet to silently ride out the storm. There was no response when we called her, and our other two dogs, who are good at keeping secrets, didn't let on. I found Audi the next day, a little thirsty but no worse for wear. The cabinet didn't suffer either.
I can see the serenity and solitude of the river trail coming in handy many more times during this new adventure.
Karen Martin is senior editor of Perspective.
kmartin@arkansasonline.com
Editorial on 05/12/2019