You CAN Go Home Again

Today I went to Hickory Hill Park in Iowa City with my friend Mary, my mom, and Maggie. I hadn't been back in 9 years, since I see no point in walking in a park without a dog and I haven't had my dogs with me on previous visits. It was so wonderful to be there, to walk along the hills and dales and creeks and wooded paths that I spent countless hours traversing when I lived in Iowa City. When I first moved to town, I would go into the park and purposely get lost, wandering around until I eventually saw something familiar and could find my way out. This adventuring lasted about six months, after which I pretty much knew every part of the park....but it remained my wonderful oasis; my place to think and walk and relish being outdoors with my dogs. Here I composed stupid songs about how much Emily liked to chase rabbits and squirrels and then lie down in the creek, exhausted, lapping up water once she caught her breath. Here I skied in the winter and lay down in the snow, everything quiet, marveling that I was warm in the midst of all that frozen splendor. Always we stopped at some point during the walk, to change from moving through the environment to being a part of the environment. It was my mini-Thoreau experiment.

And always at the end, we'd get back to the parking lot, and I would open the door to the car and Emily would just stand there. And she would look at me, and back to the car, and then out at the park. And I would sigh and sit down on the curb by the open car door and say yes, I know it is very sad that we have to leave the park. And she'd come over and we'd sit there, side by side, lamenting that we couldn't just live at Hickory Hill, but gradually accepting the reality that we would indeed have to get in the car and go to our house. And after a few minutes, having made the transition from our wild, unfettered park selves to our civilized, house selves, I'd get up and Emily would hop in the car and we'd go home.

I heart you, Hickory Hill.