Little White Socks

The dust from the dirt road that we trudge up, clouds around our ankles rising nearly to our knees. It is hot and dry. We had left the bike route to walk what we thought was a short jaunt, down to the Connecticut River to wiggle our toes in its waters, but the hike was far longer than I anticipated and now, I was having the pleasure of hearing all about it.

“Mom, you are crazy. You are always looking for perfect. There is no perfect. We should have stopped here on the route. I don’t want to dilly-dally! Now we are even hotter and we wasted our time.”

I had thought it was a beautiful walk, a stroll down a dirt country lane, lined with 8-foot-high corn stalks that stretched as far as the eye could see, ending at a boat ramp where I did indeed dabble my toes in the cool water, but Oaks was having none of it and was voicing it quite clearly.

His voice and the hill crescendoed at the same moment and just as we reached the top where we had stashed our bikes, I heard a mild voice weave it’s way through Oakley’s. I turned to find it’s source and standing on the front steps of a lovely farm house, replete with a long, wide front porch, swing, and hanging flower baskets, stood an older woman with white hair in a droopy bun and a welcoming smile.
“Would you to like some ice water?”, she called.
“Sure,” we called back, “that would be great!” We hustled on over to her shaded yard with the greenest of grasses and a huge Oak tree that offered us much needed shade and she handed us two frosty waters.

As we spoke of the heat and biking, flowers and corn I couldn’t help but notice her feet. She was wearing fresh, white ankle socks and no shoes. Here surrounded by all this dirt and dust, she had pristine feet. They glowed with freshness and purIty. I looked at ours by comparison and wondered if either of us would ever have a life that had room for socks that could stay white. I somehow doubted we had what it took.

Today started with climbing up and over Franconia notch, the last beautiful and punishing look we will have of the White Mountains. As we slipped down onto it’s western flanks, thick forest and jagged rocks gave way to rolling farm land.

We cycled along ridges and looked down across valleys of corn and hay, to hazy mountains in the distance. Tiger Lily’s, Golden Rod, Queen Anne’s Lace and Asters clung to the side of the roads and fields. We passed old farmhouses, barns and stables as the road gentled.

Now, after 55 miles, we have crossed the Connecticut River into Vermont. We are exhausted, but have just sucked down a can each of peaches packed in heavy syrup, pulling out the wedges with sticky fingers and drinking the juice. Normally, I would think of this as diabetes in a can, but today, I think it is just the thing to revive us, like Stanley Yelnats in the book “Holes”.

We passed another cyclist going cross-country about an hour ago. He has just started his journey. He was walking his bike up the hills. We really should have given him one of our cans.

To our reader-please note that reception is scarce in these parts. I am writing on my phone with my thumbs, while Oakley paces around me, waiting for me to finish. My editing is non-existent and my photos won’t download. Thank you for reading none-the-less!