July Walks at High Noon
why mandatory slowness is a good thing
Three hours ago, I watched a red balloon float across the treetops at the foot of a mountain. I didn’t stop. I didn’t need to; the mountain and the forest at its base were going to be in my eyeline for at least half a mile.
The balloon moved through the treetops in a way that looked choreographed. There was barely any breeze, even with a storm in the forecast for later in the afternoon. The balloon kept moving, equal parts dancing and bouncing, and I kept thinking about it after watching it float across the dirt road where I was walking.
Whose ballon was it? Did he or she release it on purpose? Did a small child let go of it by accident, leading to tears and a lesson in disappointment? At a distance, it appeared to be heart-shaped, so my imagination ran wild for a bit. Did someone let it go on purpose, in an attempt to let go of the person who originally gave it to them?
In the deep South, where I grew up, a high of 80 degrees—63% humidity—during the week of my birthday would be miraculous. Such a gloriously low temperature in July, with humidity only in the 60s, would be regarded as the Almighty looking down and deciding, in His mercy, to grant us all a day of cool, refreshing relief from summer’s foretaste of what awaits the damned in Hell.
By birthright, I should find days like today to be vaguely autumn-like and spend the whole day outdoors. But this is my eighth summer as a Vermonter, and I’ve long since adjusted to the weather. I live for the 50 degree sunrises I enjoy each day during the summer and the 50-55 degree weather that lasts all day through much of September, October, and November. Eight years into New England life, I find temperatures above 75 quite miserable, and exponentially moreso the higher the mercury rises.
So why do I take walks at noon, each and every day, in July?