The first time I walked at Churchich Park in Omaha many years ago, I sensed that all of us were walking or running from something – bad health, loneliness, a dying dream, a toxic home life.
The trail is flat around the park and meanders around a softball field, tennis courts and playground. The flatness is less intimidating for the broken, like me (I walk with a limp). Anybody who can walk (or push themselves in a wheelchair) can navigate her curves.
A short, elderly woman wearing a purple jogging suit slumbered toward me one day, her hand grasping her Chihuahua’s leash as he pulled her along. Her eyes met mine, which is trail code for “Please acknowledge me.” If you don’t want to be acknowledged, you avoid eye contact.
I took a chance and stopped.
“His feeties are covered in mud. Looks like he’s having the time of his life,” I said, pointing at her dog. The dog looked up at me with his head tilted as if to say, “What’s the problem?”
The woman smiled. “I think you’re right. The dirtier he is, the happier he is.”
We both knew the exchange was about more than her dog. Maybe she was lonely, so she fled her home for the walking trail. I could be wrong, of course. Maybe she just really needed to walk her dog. But I have to tell you, I trust the code.
During another walk at the park, a soccer player stayed off the walking trail, dribbling the ball in the grass next to the trail – probably partially as a courtesy and partially because soccer fields aren’t made for cement. Apparently, he was trying to get in or stay in soccer-playing shape. I got the feeling he was running from stagnancy – not wanting to give up on a dream.
An elderly man who was out walking his dog on the trail one day tipped his cap at me as we passed. Not enough people tip their cap anymore. I felt like I was in Mayberry, and I mean that in the best way possible.
As I made my laps one day, I saw a teenage girl with the arm of Derek Jeter throw out an adult man at first base from the shortstop position during a softball game.
More than once, somebody significantly older passed me on the track. I didn’t feel any shame over that. We were all walking for different reasons. I wasn’t in a race with anybody.
Over the years, I saw fathers and sons playing catch, fathers pitching to their kids, middle-aged people playing tennis, families navigating the playground, young men playing basketball with no thought of waking up with sore knees or stiff backs, twenty-somethings playing softball, and forty-somethings attempting to play softball.
I was constantly reminded that each of us carries our own stories, struggles, and dreams. In the quiet moments of passing glances, brief conversations, and shared spaces, there was a sense of unspoken solidarity. Though I’ve moved away, the memories of those walks linger – a beautiful tapestry of humanity. In those fleeting moments of acknowledgment, we found a sense of belonging, and perhaps that was the true beauty of the park.
