Tag: health

I used to be a hunter.

And now I am a gatherer.

At least as it applies to amusement parks.

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I think it’s because I’m getting older.

I’d like to blame something else.

But aging has no alibi.

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Plan a trip to X 

to see Y

and flawlessly execute the plan.

I found the game,

and then I took it down.

Hunt complete.

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The young people amusementing themselves with us

are still hunters.

Each day they planned the big game of the day,

And set out to capture the death-defying roller coaster of choice.

The ROC. 

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Their logic was not to hunt in the picked-over concrete forest

but to seek out the untouched land. 

Getting to the game before the other hunters was urgent.

And of course it was always the furthest away.

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Being reasonably responsible people,

Hubby and I did not buy fast passes for six.

And for the same reason,

we stayed at a three bedroom four-and-a-half bath VRBO

instead of one of the park hotels offering early entry.

We learned a long time ago:

no matter how many people you pack into a hotel room,

there is only one bathroom per room.

And one bathroom divided by six people

equals misery for five at any given moment.

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So: no early entry, no fast pass.

The hunters still wanted to beat the crowd.

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The death march began the very instant

our feet hit the parking lot pavement.

The mission was to walk as fast as we could

on the pre-determined straightest path to the ROC.

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No sightseeing.

No people watching.

No dilly-dallying.

Not even a bathroom stop,

if the hunters had their way.

But mine is a 69-year-old post-chemo bladder.

It always gets its way. 

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None of them are under 5’8″.

They are young and fit,

with powerful slender legs

 and long, easy strides.

They were hunting with passion.

---

I was none of those things.

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So I raced along,

double-stepping as fast as my little feet –

including the injured big toe –

would carry me.

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That first death march

my watch clocked a mile and a half

before we reached the hunting ground.

And that was in the smaller park.

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I arrived exhausted,

sweating profusely,

and to be honest – pretty put off.

(Southern for: not at all pleased.)

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The rest of the day was a remake of that first death march,

ride after ride after ride.

Hunters hunt.

That’s what they do.

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Their hunting went on.

My thrill did not.

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Without  their big game to direct my focus,

I started looking around for what would entertain me.

I realized what I wanted was to

enjoy a cool breeze,

watch the little kids’ shining faces

getting their pictures made with in-character characters,

sit and have a drink in the shade,

admire the beautiful scenery, and

smell the metaphorical roses.

I had become a gatherer.

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I was torn, to be sure.

I wanted the S’kiddles to have a great time.

And while I knew a great time,

in the hunter’s sense,

wasn’t going to happen for me,

I didn’t want the death marches to become the death of me.

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So instead of chasing their ROC,

I let the pack go on ahead of me.

With two men over 6’5″,

they were pretty easy to use as landmarks.

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And I looked around as I walked.

I saw things I’d had no idea were there.

A bathroom, up the hill to the right.

A water bottle refill station, just to the left.

A Starbucks, tucked into a cute little alcove up ahead.

None of it was their ROC.

All of it was exactly what I needed.

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I used to search for the ROC

looking neither left nor right,

and hunt it down.

Now I was noticing shade.

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Hunters hunt.

Gatherers gather.

And it turns out,

somewhere around mile two of a death march,

gathering looks a lot more like wisdom than giving up.

-Pattie