But Where?

     Deliberate walking - flaneury in French - can be both an unsettling and exhilarating proposition in a driving town such as mine, Lewisburg, West Virginia, population more-or-less five thousand in roughly two square miles.

     To get the thrills, walkers must first accept the funny looks, namely scowls from drivers who have to swerve, scorn from those who assume poverty or worse, and pity from a few who falsely empathize. It's a driving culture in most American towns and cities, and those in open opposition to it must be either odd or poor, probably both.
     In the 1970s, in my hometown in New Jersey, there was a quiet, middle-aged man who wouldn't have been all that noticeable, except he walked. Parents warned their children to be wary of this strange and potentially dangerous person. Children talked to their siblings and friends:

     He's just been released from Trenton State.

     He's a flasher when he catches you alone.

     He's a Russian spy.

     He had throat cancer and can't talk.

     He was a chemistry professor at Rutgers who blew up his lab.

So much for being a quiet, middle-aged man who likes to walk.

     A next step before reaching the joy of walking is learning to gracefully reject the ride offers that come in any weather extreme, be it heat, cold, or wet. Talk about killing with kindness, such do-gooders will stop at the apex of a blind hill or in the bend of curve, putting both the walker and themselves at risk of a collision. Expressing profuse thanks and relief at survival with an enthusiastic wave as these puzzled samaritans drive away will keep them from crossing over to the funny-looker side.

     Once accepting of scorn and mortality, the flaneur is ready for the joy of flaneury.
There are unsusual glimpses of the rising sun along with it's warming and healing rays. There's time-travel to another period of walking in life, for me to the half-mile trek to and from elementary school when friends were made, new paths discovered, and spontaneous adventures embarked upon. There are unexpected encounters with wildlife - a black-crowned night heron, a tiny snapping turtle scurrying across the road, fuzzy yellow goslings waddling behind their mother goose, a brawny red fox disappearing into the brush, a melanotic deer using black ears to swat flies. There's the uphill shift to fat metabolism, agonizing in it's urgency, slimming in it's outcome. There's insight into the right wording, the best direction, the better response. Then, after a mindful and mindless half hour, I arrive there, ready for the day's work, with these words from E.E. Cummings on the tip of my mind:

seeker of truth

follow no path

all paths lead where

truth is here