jump to navigation

My mother’s walks in the woods January 21, 2011

Posted by Jenny in hiking, memoir, nature, poetry.
Tags: , , , ,
trackback

Mom on a walk along the Potomac, mid-1970s. She would have been in her early 50s. The ground is spangled with Virginia bluebells.

Recently my hiking friend Greg Hoover mentioned his mother’s appreciation of wildflowers in a post about Fort Harry Falls. His words have prompted some fond memories of my own mother’s love of nature and in particular the family ritual of Going For a Walk in the Woods. Yes, the words were always capitalized in my mind—especially the word “Woods.”

One might think that since I am such a dedicated hiker, I must have grown up in a family constantly engaged in vigorous, athletic, outdoor activities—hiking, camping, canoeing, archery, God knows what. This was not the case. We were a family of quiet, pale, bookish people. We did not go on hikes, we went on Walks. I came to realize over the years just how non-outdoorsy my family was, each time my longtime companion, Bob, pointed out yet another place, seemingly across all of New England, where his family had gone camping. It became a running joke, as we drove along through western Maine or central New Hampshire or southern Vermont: “Oh, my family used to camp here.” The thing was, his Mom and Dad were not the slightest bit athletic. Yet they were quite willing to load up the car with a giant tent that would be set up quasi-military style with trenches dug all around, the lawn chairs and the tarp set up, the food set out on the picnic table, as the kids ran down to the lake or the river or whatever the attraction was. The point was, they were putting in many, many hours enjoying the Great Outdoors (more words that need to be capitalized).

My mother and father loved nature, but we never stayed out overnight in it. I’m not even sure exactly why not. We didn’t have any of the gear, and we never acquired it. It wasn’t that any of us minded getting dirt under our fingernails or slapping at a few mosquitoes or maybe encountering a snake or a bear. It just… never seemed to occur to us.

At any rate, in the area where I grew up, in Arlington, Virginia (the family moved to Massachusetts later on), we would take walks in the woods right behind our house, in Glencarlyn Park. Further up the Potomac, Great Falls was a popular destination, or the C&O Canal towpath, or Sugarloaf Mountain in Maryland. We probably seldom walked more than five miles. But we walked almost every weekend, and Mom and Dad continued to walk together after the three kids had left home, both of them taking walks up to within a year or so of when they died, Dad in 2001 and Mom in 2007.

Mom and Dad had slightly different angles on the woods. My father loved to identify trees and to locate especially large specimens of different kinds (I will write about this in my next post). Mom knew her plants, trees, and animals pretty well, but for her, that was not really the main purpose of being in the outdoors. For her, the Woods were a mystical kind of place. It went back to her childhood, full of the classics of children’s tales such as Andrew Lang’s Red Fairy Book. As I have written elsewhere, the forests of those tales were full of danger and mystery. They were not a place where, for example, children’s environmental consciousness would be raised.

Hansel and Gretel. Illustration by H.J. Ford.

For Mom, the Woods were a place where mystery, beauty, and science came together. I will try my best to explain. The mystery was a deep sense of awe about the place. Not exactly reverence—that seems too deferential, or too pious, or something. Just a gut-level feeling that something extraordinary was going on out there.

Mom’s sense of beauty caused her to notice and admire things that were not usually seen in the first place, let alone focused on. She would point out to us the texture of a blanket of moss, or the way a tree’s shadow was moving in the wind, or the sound of rain gently pattering on the leaves. She gave the three of us kids a tremendous gift: the ability to see things that did not neatly fit a word or a concept or a label.

Now, the science part. Again, this had nothing to do with environmental education—not that there’s anything wrong with that. Mom, being the unconventional person she was, had an interest in the philosophy of science, especially the oddities of quantum physics. It was an interest she took up in middle age and studied deeply. So when she went for a walk, she tended to find things that fit some pretty abstract ideas she had about the way the universe works. The best way I can convey this kind of thinking is to share one of her poems.

Weed Field

All over a newly-plowed field

neat, clean-cut weed sprouts

materialize as heedlessly

as spatters of rain.

Each weed takes a well-ordered

form according to its coded

instructions—and then grows

from soil of chaotic black

rot and silt, a random

distribution of rainwater, and

plain white, unsorted sunlight.

Yet every leaf that appears

fits the pattern exactly.

*     *     *


Mom, Jenny, Peter, Dad in back, Betsy in front. At Great Falls, 1961.

Part of Great Falls (from Maryland side)


Advertisements

Comments»

1. Janet Germane - January 21, 2011

Knowing your family all of our lives, from grad school on, this was very touching to see. Thank you so much for doing this. I think it needs to be said that the stream back of your home in Glencarlyn gave you children easy access to a natural world in your nearly daily experience. Combine that with the simple science projects that were also part of your daily life, providing the excitement of learning and sharpening your awareness of the structure beneath the apparent world. What a lab Ned and Barbara provided to anchor you in such larger realities. Love to you all.

Jenny - January 21, 2011

Yes, I remember constantly exploring up and down Four Mile Run in the park. Mom and Dad chose our particular house on Third Street because it bordered on the park. I used to try to make little forts in the woods, but they never lasted through a good rain! And of course we were always catching box turtles, feeding them lettuce and tomatoes for a week or so, then letting them go. (Probably not good for their health…)

2. Thomas Stazyk - January 22, 2011

A very nice memoir! Thanks for sharing and I like the poem.

3. Rick S - January 22, 2011

Great post – loved reading that!

4. Peter Bennett - January 22, 2011

Thank you for this most insightful post about our parents so far. Mom certainly passed on her curiosity and appreciation for nature to us. I remember when I was single and in my 20s, living in a cabin in Montana but back at home visiting Mom and Dad, I said to them “Nature is the most important thing in my life”. I am sure Mom was very touched by that statement. Today, a married family man, I would say that nature is just one of the most important things in my life, but Mom’s influence has never left me. The feeling of awe is greatest when I am in the rugged wilderness, but I still appreciate the smaller creations of nature as well.

Jenny - January 22, 2011

Thank you, Peter. I always wondered what Mom would have thought if she had come into contact with the more rugged side of nature early in life, whether it would have further enriched her ideas about the outdoors. (I believe it might have given her new ideas to add to the many she already had.) I took her and Dad up above treeline in the Whites in the early 90s (my Toyota Celica overheated on the Mt. Washington Auto Road). We did a short moderate walk through the Alpine Garden area. She was impressed, but I think those kinds of places affect you differently if you don’t explore them when you’re relatively young.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s