Trolley Trail

We put on hats, fastened under chins and pulled snug over ears.  We pulled on mittens.  We pulled off mittens, left flapping, hanging by elastic out of coat sleeves.  We left the light on, locked the door, grabbed our bags, and hit the trail.

Imagine that:  a trail just at the end of our alley.  The Trolley Trail they call it because it used to be a trolley line.  It’s through the trees, but you can still see the cars and the lake below.  It only goes three blocks—the perfect length for a one-and-a-half-year-old and four-year-old.

We crunched and collected.  Red ones, orange ones, yellow ones.  Not too crunchy.  Look for soft ones.  Here’s one!  Oh, is this a good one?  That’s a great one!  Found one!  A hunt.  For fall leaves.  For nature’s treasure.

We ran, we skipped, we jumped.  We found logs and sticks and stumps.  We didn’t go far, but it was far enough to feel like we were in another place.  The woods, but not quite.

And I watched them, bundled and red-faced from the chill in the wind.  And I enjoyed them, simply delighted by the ground and what had fallen on it.  And we moved…slowly.  In no hurry to get anywhere at all.  Just to put one foot in front of the other and crunch, crunch, crunch.

It’s getting dark.  Everything is falling.  Slowing down.  Minnesota summer was remarkable.  A big yellow vacation.  But fall is here, whispering winter’s chill and dimming the lights, and I’m ready.

Slippers are in the basket, soup is in the crock-pot, and leaves are coming indoors, in our bags, in our hair, tucked in the cuffs of our pant-legs.  It’s only October, but I’m feeling bold, Minnesota.  Bring us home, slow us down, snuggle us up.  I can handle the nip of your fall air, and I’m bracing myself for the chill in my bones when the crunch of leaves suddenly becomes the crunch of frozen earth.