The Rush Home

The first few tentative steps between the William Penn Charter School and the twin house on Indian Queen lane are nothing more than dodging traffic. Making sure no hapless new driver, phone-distracted friend or even elderly teacher brings my walk to a crashing halt. Sneakers meet asphalt to avoid the biking toddlers and then I’ll jump out of the way of the eager students rushing home at the end of a too long day. Even turning a corner is hazardous with the track team practicing their sprints off the field for once. The rush of the end of school appears inescapable. And it is. Even I feel it. That urge to run home. My pace picks up as I round that corner without running into the track team.

The long stretch of sidewalk in front of me seems easy and quick. It never is. No matter how many times I walk it, I forget that it is seems truly endless and irritatingly separates me from my home more than any other part of this daily trek. The flat, carefully tended to sidewalk has no faults and the smoothness of it all makes it seem to go on forever. It is a pretty scene though. Picturesque little houses, which are each so different from one another, hide behind a freshly mowed lawn. And those discarded grass shavings always cling to the soles of my shoes. These houses each have their own personality, and the lawns and gardens are so cared for. Only one of the lawns ever has dandelions springing up. Those little weeds turn into a house overcome with ivy that will never stop trying to entangle my feet as I pass. The frustration that swells in me is an overreaction, but then again the simplest things on my walk can annoy me. Tree saplings have struggled to grow into adolescents and now provide shade. For a moment, no cars pass and it almost seems peaceful. But it is my own rush to get home disrupts the cool, calm atmosphere.

The park across the way is muddy and empty as usual. The benches are sinking into the earth, the wood planks still struggling against the ghosts of those who have sat on them. The browning grass is flat and crushed, the victim of the eager dogs and their owners. And the trees, which used to tower over everyone, seem to be withering with their age. This silly little park mirrors my walk down that long, slow stretch.

And finally I’ve found the end…of that first part of the so-called journey at least. I’ve come to the first intersection. The busiest street my neighborhood knows. Filled with angry workers rushing to and from meetings, students carelessly texting as they drive and parents whose only concern is getting their child from sport’s practice. The fenced in lawns and grander homes have fallen to the shadows as car after car speeds by, or turns recklessly towards the school. I am the irritation now. I am the pedestrian who interrupts their perfectly chaotic rush. The crossing of this intersection is like an ungraceful exchange between the drivers and myself. Cross here, wait there, cross once more. And all of this is done with glares being shot at me no matter how fast I move.

At last I’ve reached the curved road that’s nothing but cherry trees, well-trimmed shrubs and the occasional barking Yorkshire terrier. Muddy leaves occupy the sidewalk, but are already being swept away, leaving small trails behind them. Construction on the stone Church is always being done and never seems to finish. The beat up trucks and jackhammers that belong to the workers are always about, but as I pass the azalea or the berry bushes, no workers ever seem to be there. It's as if they are ghosts, flitting around only when no one can see them. The cracked sidewalk and chipping paint on the Church’s sign pass in instant, leading to the next big intersection that I run across.

The change of scenery is amazing. Tall standing, elegant, single homes have turned into stone, maybe even concrete, compact twins and row homes. Grass lawns are now traded for front porches and smooth, flat sidewalk is now crumbling, uneven slabs of cement. The only signs of nature are weeds poking through the cracks of stone structures or perhaps a tree, disrupting the sidewalk even more. These houses are unrecognizable from each other. These streets are not busy with cars, but with other pedestrians.

After watching the suburban change to the more urban, one final turn leads me to the chain link fence that protects grass so old it has almost turned to dust. I pass the few houses that have incorporated some grass in front of their concrete porches. A tilted slab of sidewalk gives way to newer, redone slabs and ascending stone steps. Climbing the crooked bottom and making my way to the smooth top is effortless. I’m surrounded by bushes to the left, stone to the right. The green door signals that I’m home. That it’s my stone porch under my feet, and my creaking door.  The walk has paid off, and I have arrived.