The "lay of the land" run

Today I arrived in sunny California for a long-ish work trip. After driving my rental to Hotel Sofitel in Redwood City, I decided to take advantage of the sunny summer air, and beautiful vista with a quick run.

I looped around the hotel's scenic lagoon, and had just neared the curve of one edge, about 1/2 mile in, when I saw a family of ducks--four or five large ducks on and next to the path, accompanied by around 10 ducklings--not tiny, but not full grown, nearly the size of footballs, with the yellow fuzziness that marks a young duck. It was then I noticed the "Watch for ducks crossing" signs--not an advertisement for the local Chinese cuisine, it seems. The ducks placidly watched my running, standing stoically as I trampled less than a foot aware from them. (The route back, a bit different--one of the ducks hissed at me at soon as I came within 20 feet of the duck herd--causing a small detour on my part. Do ducks bite? I imagine so.)

Nearly swooning with delight over the sheer adorableness of the herd of ducks and ducklings, I continued on my run, blithely and happily, nary a care in the world.

Until I realized that I was running through a minefield of duck poop. The sideway was scattered, thickly, with mass amounts of multicolored duck feces for nearly a half mile. The way became perilous, as I dodged and weaved, taking care to protect my running kicks as best I was able. Soon, at last, I had passed safely through to clean sidewalk, and could again concentrate on the truly lovely scenery.

I shambled over a bridge across the lagoon and nearly lost my breath--the late afternoon sun shone over rippling water, and the city rose behind the lagoon, the mountains looming further behind. California, quicker to warm than cool New England, had exploded into lush vegetation--further exhibited as my legs carried me over the bridge and into suburbia. Neatly trimmed lawns were shadowed by arching trees with thick brown and gray veined trunks and heavy falls of green at their tops. But the best part--oh, the roses. The roses were everywhere, in every yard, some lining the entrance to a home, some hugging the edges of curving driveways. White, yellows, and a variety of pinks, the roses were like something out of a dream--something unexpected at this time of year, and all the lovelier because of it.

My mother loves roses. She is disdainful of the storebought rose, which she believes has been engineered too much for its perfect bud shape, at the sacrifice of its smell. Instead, she loves the bushes that grow blooms in wild abandon and fill the air with their heavy, sweet scent in the summer and fall months. I cannot begin to number the roses I helped her to plant in my parents' three-acre yard. But I know that when I see roses growing freely outside that I will always think of my mother, and of my youth.