The Morning Patrol

A Walk on the Mild Side
Like a mangy old coyote with more limp than swagger in his step, I begin most mornings by patrolling my territory.

I live on a pine ridge in a town I‘ll call Riverdale. My cottage sits on a corner overlooking a river. One street is named after the first European settler in the area. He made his farm on the corn fields of the Native Americans who had their summer encampment on the other side of the river where a milltown now darkens the horizon. The other street is named after the brothers, who operated a general where the ferry crossed the river.

One hundred and fifty years ago there were two general stores at the ferry landing. When a Republican was president the post office was in one store and when a Democrat was in power it moved across the street.The ferry was replaced by a trolley bridge and finally an automobile bridge that crosses the river into the mill town.

The general stores have been replaced by a chain convenience store and the gas station, where I buy the newspaper every morning.

On the walk to the store I stroll past winterized cottages under 80-foot white pines. On the way back I walk along the bank of the river at the base of the ridge. That street is named after one of the town fathers who made his fortune in California during the gold rush. Rumor has it when he was digging the cellar of his home, he had to dispose of the remains of Native Americans buried there.

Nothing that dramatic has happened during my morning stroll, but it the river’s mood changes with the weather.