Tracks

I'm home for the holidays now, and I've taken to wandering around my old neighborhood, as I've always done. I find my neighborhood engaging enough as it is, but this week it's had the added enrichment of Snow, and Lots Of It.

Every day I've been going out to see who's been around: there have been raccoon tracks investigating a trash can, rat tracks hurrying to a hidey hole - perhaps related to the nearby tracks of a cat and her kittens. The tracks of the rare and illusive mailman, making a wide garland from porch to porch. Also, pony tracks - definite horseshoe prints along the sidewalk. Unexpected!

A few times now while out and about, I've encountered my father, also out and about. We are similar in that it takes us a while to just get down the block, because there is really just so much to stop and see. I get this 100% from my dad - the wandering gene must be dominant over the recessive genes which restrict my mother to strictly Point-A-to-Point-B travels. Sure, she'll make the occasional additional stop - as long as it lies along Line AB.

Anyway - the wandering is here in my storytelling too, it seems - once I was the one being tracked by my snowy footprints. I had doubled back at some point and nearly threw my father off, but he soon recovered, and eventually there we were together. I showed him the phantom raccoons, the cats, the pony.

We spent some time fabricating tracks to baffle anyone else who might be about. Hop on one foot with an upturned shovel as a crutch, and what do you get? Pirate tracks.