Ritual

The mister is a very, very patient man. When we walk in the Fall, I do an odd sort of capering step along the sidewalk until I fall behind. He will walk for a time before slowing to an eventual stop. He will turn, and stand waiting. Waiting for what? For me to step on all the green acorns that have fallen prematurely from the trees all along the way. The man and the children all find this particular idiosyncrasy either odd or annoying, depending on their perspectives and moods on any given walk. Still, I have spent years stepping on all the green acorns, and it's a habit unlikely to die off anytime soon.
This morning Walker and I headed out on our familiar route. I was surreptitiously (or so I thought) stepping on only some of the green acorns crying out to me from the sidewalk. (Because I'm not a total weirdo.) Walker piped up about three-quarters of a mile into our 4-5 mile trek that she particularly liked to step on the green acorns. She mentioned the satisfying "pop! crrrunch" resulting from smashing the little nuggets. (Precisely! Yes! Exactly!) The final quarter mile would likely have been entertaining had any observer chanced upon us. There were very few green acorns missed in our mincing dance along the street toward home. I rather suspect the image was not dissimilar to the look of trying to run across a series of tires on an obstacle course. Except without the tires. And with a certain measure of unadulterated glee.