The Long Walk

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

My husband has always had a quirky brain. He can execute complex automotive engine schematics, but he had to carry a 3 x 5 card with my name on it in his pocket for the first six months we dated because sometimes he just couldn’t pull my name out of his memory bank. (He’d sneak a peek at the card whenever I wasn’t looking.) If you ask him about 12^th century warfare, he can speak with authority on medieval armor construction and military tactics. But once when I sent him to our local elementary school office to deliver milk money for four of our children, he couldn’t tell the secretary their ages or the names of their teachers. (She called me to solve the problem.) Having a benign brain tumor and 14 hours of surgery to remove that tumor added balance instability to the mix.

One sunny day several summers ago, my husband decided that more exercise would benefit not only his brain but his overall health. And because he never does anything by halves, he made himself a walking stick—a 10-foot dowel intended to be used as a handrail for staircases. He sanded it down, stained it, and created an imposing support for any possible terrain which might threaten his equilibrium. Donning his favorite “work clothes” (which included a ripped, torn, and oil saturated pair of jeans and shirt), he headed out—resembling, by all accounts, a homeless-looking Gandalf walking along the side of 78^th South.

It was hot. He forgot water. The farther he trekked, the more his balance difficulties interfered with his steps. A mile or two and 45 minutes later, a police car pulled up next to him and a pleasant, crew-cut patrolman stepped out of his car. “Mister, are you OK? We got a call from a lady who saw you stumbling along the road and was worried about your welfare.”

My husband grinned. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just out exercising.” But he allowed as how he might have over-estimated his readiness for an extended walk.

The cop took in the tattered clothes, the sweat pouring off his face, and the pole rising a good three feet above his head. “You look a little spent, Sir. Where do you live? I’ll give you a ride home?”

Without a 3 x 5 card in his pocket or his phone, which was sitting in our bathroom still charging from the night before, my husband couldn’t remember the actual numbers in our address. “No problem,” he said cheerfully as he stuffed his walking stick across the seats and out the window of the police car. “I’ll give you directions.”

They made it home without incidence, the cop warning my husband to drink plenty of water and be more careful the next time he decided to embark on a hike. An injunction my husband took to heart. So, the next day when he was ready to head out, he wore another pair of work clothes, grabbed his walking stick, and forgot his water. But he did call the local police precinct station to give them his route and his estimated ETA. Wouldn’t want to necessitate unwarranted use of community tax dollars for emergency services that clearly were a waste of time.

Problem solved.