It was too cold for the salt to melt the ice on the roads so even in slow
motion I slewed on the curves and slid a little at the stop signs, but the day
of the storm I didn’t get out at all. In
this season the pathway for my walk is the supermarket. I estimate seven times around to be a
mile. This is not the transcendental
saunter into Nature idealized by Thoreau, but neither is it a gym.
The supermarket is better in a number of ways, the first being you get to
use it for free. The smells aren’t as
sublime as the autumn woods or the summer beach, but the deli department, the
fish counter, and the bakery are better than the stink of a jock on an adjacent
treadmill. As for comradery, I’m greeted
by a friendly deli man, the checkout ladies, and the fellow who stocks the
shelves.
I’m not as easily lost in thought as I early on a summer morning am at
the beach. In the supermarket I have to watch for carts emerging from aisles, oblivious
shoppers pondering labels, and slowpokes of various ages, but it’s safer than
crossing the street. Visually, there’s
nothing like sunlight filtering through forest leaves or the flight of a tern
with a sand eel in its beak, but supermarket colors are bright and varied, and
the displays change from week to week.
I like being among foodstuffs, even those I don’t buy. I pass the cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli and
remember childhood suppers on winter evenings after sledding. I don’t want to go back to Table Talk Pies
either, but somehow I’m glad they’re still there. I check prices as I go by, and if I see solid
pack white tuna at 10 for $10, I stock up. I do my shopping when my walk is
done, rounding the store one final time. Being almost a daily shopper, I don’t
usually have more than I can take to the express checkout, but over the winter
I pay for the use of the heat and light and the wear of my shoes on the
supermarket floor.
My walk isn’t as soul-healing as one of Thoreau’s but it gives me a
change of scene, raises my heartrate for the prescribed amount of time, and fills
the pantry too. I don’t get nailed at a
crosswalk by a skidding car or slip and break an aging hip. We fogies deal with
winter as best we can.
