The outdoors as a kid included biking around the neighborhood to look at rats in vacant lots.

I grew up in a scrappy working-class section of New York City called Astoria when the U.S. was locked into a protracted cold war with the former USSR. A quarter bought me a slice of pizza and a soft drink. Apple and blackberry were just fruits. A mouse was a tiny gray animal that scared the heck out of tenants. For us city kids, the outdoors was the occasional trip to Central Park, Rockaway Beach, or star gazing from the roof of our apartment building. For fresh air, I walked with my friend John around the neighborhood of small homes with peanut-sized yards, old brick apartment buildings and empty lots strewn with rubbish. We liked being outside. 

Cheap entertainment venues were spread thin, none of us went to summer camp as our parents couldn’t afford the cost. Besides, we were afraid of the woods. Sleep outside? No way. There could’ve been axe murderers or green monsters lurking in the woods. One summer program, CYO—Catholic Youth Organization—was geared towards sports. What about kids who weren’t athletic or Catholic? Not much was available for them.

Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts were for the Long Island and upstate kids, not us city brats. Sing around the campfire? Not on your life. We would have no idea what to do. All the action was on the front stoop outside the shabby apartment buildings. Girls played hopscotch or jumped rope; boys flipped baseball cards. Neighborhood women relaxed on folding chairs under the only tree on the block. The ladies smoked cigarettes and gossiped about everyone within a 10-block radius. Men were more elusive—if they shuffled outside in their house slippers, the old guys shared war stories. Almost all were WWII veterans except for my dad. He didn’t heed the call to go ‘over there’ because his parents died young. Dad raised his younger brother Nicky.

Relief from the insufferable summer heat could be fanning yourself on the fire escape or sitting outside on the front stoop. Sometimes, an opened fire hydrant drenched us in cool water. What fun. Riding the subway in the summer was miserable. Cars weren’t air-conditioned then. 

So, to escape from the humdrum neighborhood, my dad took us kids to watch the murky waters of the East River. Sometimes, we ventured all the way to the Central Park Zoo—that was exciting. Mostly, though, he took us places like the empty railroad yards in Long Island City, a section of New York City, to view the skyscrapers in Manhattan or to look at the tugboats streaming up and down the filthy river.  

Summer vacation was nearly always a visit to my mother’s family in a rural part of Alabama. The long road trip in a car without air-conditioning was often suffocating. My dad’s smoking didn’t help. Memories of Alabama included fetching a bucket of water from the well. Until my grandmother had indoor plumbing installed, we dropped the pail into the well and carried it inside. For a city kid, that was a treat. I sometimes played with the pail, raising it and dumping the water back in. Finally, my grandmother put an end to my shenanigans.

In Alabama nearly everyone lived in houses with ample yards, front and back, with all sorts of vegetables growing, and I learned how to pick beans and to shuck corn. Living in the countryside was appealing, at least for a time. Though I never got used to bathing outside in a tub. I liked the aroma of fresh air, the taste of homemade ice cream and plenty of room to play.

A few differences, however, stood out. People in New York City had cats or dogs as pets. I assumed that the cows, sheep, goats, pigs and chickens were Alabama’s version of pet ownership. I cried when I found out Mary the sheep I had befriended ended up as lamb chops. And the first time I heard my grandmother strangle a chicken—aghast. As the bird clucked its last breath, I swore I wouldn’t eat fried chicken ever again. Only back in New York did I cave in. My father said meat in New York was different. It came from the store. You’re darn right it’s different. We don’t kill dinner. 

In my teens, my connection to nature was sun bathing at Rockaway Beach. Friends from high school packed into a city bus for the long ride to the shore. We played in the sand, walked on the boardwalk and rode the waves. Once in a while, we sun bathed well into the fall. Little did I know that excessive exposure to the sun would make me look shriveled and worn, like old tires, later in life. I’m in my late 60s now and more wrinkled than I should be. As a young girl, wrinkles or dried skin weren’t on my mind. I had fun swimming in the polluted ocean—scarfing down franks heaped with onions and sauerkraut, horsing around on the boardwalk.

In 1982, I finally ditched my eleven-year long nasty cigarette habit. Gasping as I walked up just a few stairs scared me. A friend bet me I couldn’t last a day without smoking. An affront to my stubborn pride, I said I’ll show you. And I did.

One day led to another until I lost the urge. I took up jogging and never looked back. Soon, I became a regular visitor to New York City parks, jogging, walking and biking. For the first time in my young life, I felt more of a connection with nature and spent more time away from my apartment. Outdoors in New York City parks is hardly a connection to nature but it was all I had. Then in 1985, I found a stray dog and named him Scotty after my favorite Star Trek character. Having a canine company increased my outdoor activity through daily walks. Sometimes, weather permitting, I’d bring a book or magazine, sit on a bench in Central Park with Scotty at my side, enjoying the brisk fall weather.  

I also hiked in upstate NY parks with whatever rescued dog I had and cruised along the coast of Maine to enjoy the rugged rocky beaches. Now and then, I stopped to chow down on delicious seafood at a roadside stand. The salty air tickled my nose as I listened to waves crash onto shore.

Whenever a friend offered me a ride to the slopes, I skied in upstate resorts. I wasn’t very good at the sport and often fell as I made my way downhill. Still, I had a good time and never refused an offer for a weekend ski trip.

In 1989, a mid-life crisis hit and I moved to Boston. I jogged in road races in and around the city, including the gorgeous White Mountains of New Hampshire. I’ll always remember a summertime seven-mile race—it was the only race I ever finished last. Jogging in the sweltering summer heat and humidity took its toll on two older men who I’d been running with. They dropped out before the end but I continued, ashamed to be the last runner crossing the finish line. No one noticed but silly me. The small crowd greeted me with applause and pointed to the refreshment table loaded with water and orange slices.

I also biked along the Charles River, watching college crew teams practice and compete in races. Ok, the river looked like swill back then but it was fun to watch the rowers. With friends, I drove to Vermont to enjoy the magnificent fall foliage—the sights and smells were awesome. I couldn’t stop looking at the fallen leaves in glorious colors like pumpkin orange, banana yellow and cherry red. In Vermont, too, somehow another stray dog found its way into my life. As we cruised along Vermont’s rural roads, soaking in the scenery on our way back to Boston, I noticed a dog wandering near the road’s edge. He was alone. I pulled over and whistled. The old boy, maybe a mix of hound and lab, jumped into the back seat. Without tags, I had no idea who he belonged to. Microchips weren’t available then. So, Harry moved to Boston and became dog number three. 

A colleague introduced me to a local gem: a farmer’s market about twenty-five miles east the city that offered weekend produce for sale. I made the trip with my dog, Maxine. I rolled down the window and she seemed like such a happy dog with the wind blowing in her face. At the market, I bought farm grown greens and fruits—I’d never heard of arugula before. After adding green to my salad, I was hooked. Fresh-squeezed apple cider was available in the fall. During my three year tenure in Boston, I was a frequent visitor to the farm stand.

The internet was not available then so to learn more about the outdoors, I consulted with the Boston office of AAA—the American Association of Automobiles. They sent me brochures on local attractions including one called Rockport, located at the tip of Cape Ann, about thirty-five miles give or take from Boston. A tiny tourist town, Rockport sits on the ocean’s edge. Small family owned shops sold home-made pastries, souvenirs, hand-made items and more. I cherished my visits to Rockport even if parking was a hassle. On one particular trip, I brought Maxine along for company. I had purchased a soft drink and sat on a park bench overlooking the cool, relaxing waterfront. A couple sat next to us. The lady placed her hot dog on the bench to snap a picture. Just like that, Maxine snatched the frank and gulped it down in two bites. The couple laughed. I offered to pay for a replacement, they said no. From then, I kept an eye on Maxine during our visit.

I lived in Boulder CO from 1991-92. Immediately, I was smitten with all the outdoor life. Beautiful Boulder has so many ways to be in touch with nature. Smoking and littering were frowned upon. I bought a bike and rode along a long winding path that cut through the city. Water that gushed down from nearby Boulder Creek flowed along the trail, adding to its charm. On days off, I loaded up my supplies and biked up into the mountains. Riding uphill was a challenge for someone like me, not raised in outdoor sports. I stopped now and then to rest but I persisted and finished peddling up the mountain; riding down was tricky. I paid close attention to my surroundings so I didn’t fall over the edge. Friends from work hiked regularly too in some of the area parks and invited me to join them. I had a blast and started hikes either on my own or with my canine companion at the time, depending on the weather. It’s a long story why my stay in Boulder was so short but it widened my outdoor experiences.

Over the years, I spent time in places like Wyoming, Montana and Florida.

In Florida, I relished my visits to the seaside. I always loved the sound of waves crashing to shore and the scent of salty air.

In Wyoming, I visited Linda—a friend who lived in a very remote area. On one Sunday morning, I asked Linda where I could buy a newspaper. I always read the Sunday paper in whatever city I lived in. Linda shrugged and said nowhere. Nowhere? Yikes, we were that isolated.

In Montana, I enjoyed the calm, peaceful scenery and being away from the city. I visited two cities, Billings and Missoula, and had a fantastic time. Thankfully, my trips were in the summer. I don’t think I could stand the extreme cold in these states. I’ve been in Phoenix since 1997 and lost my tolerance for the cold.

My outdoor adventures came crashing down in January of 1994. A pedestrian car accident almost took my life on a simple walk with my two dogs. A careless driver slammed into me, leaving me disabled from a traumatic brain injury. My social work career abruptly halted. That wasn’t all I lost. My mobility took a hit, ending my jogging, hiking and biking days. Many nature trails aren’t suited for motorized scooters that I now used due to loss of mobility. I did, however, sit and watch the ocean on a visit to Southern California. Oh, how I longed to run along the sand and jump in for a swim. 

I’ve been a volunteer since 1989 at animal shelters in MA, CO and now AZ. I moved to Phoenix in 1997 a few years after the accident to escape the cold, rain, wind, and snow. Inclement weather could’ve sidelined me for days. Not long after I moved to Phoenix, I got in touch with the animal rescue community.

I started to volunteer with the county animal services and met a dynamic older woman named Barb. She coordinated off site rescues at parks, churches, and libraries to move our pets into good homes. One such adoption event was at a lovely park in Cave Creek, a section northeast of the city. Located in the sprawling Sonoran desert, the scenic park offered hiking trails, picnic tables, and campgrounds. That was my first introduction to the regional parks. As a regular volunteer, our off-site adoption events introduced me to other parks including Encanto Park, a superb public place smack inside the city of Phoenix. Encanto is a lush green oasis in the midst of the dry, dusty and arid Southwest. The park has a swimming pool, golf course, boat house, fishing lagoon, ramadas and hiking trails. The city of Scottsdale has magnificent outdoor areas including Thompson Peak Park, another destination for our outdoor adoption events. In addition to hiking trails, children’s playground and picnic areas—spread out enough and has room for everyone to walk or bike. Lots of unwanted dogs and cats found new homes because of our adventures in the parks.

Dog parks, also known as off-leash areas, first appeared in 1979 in California. By the early 2000s, they picked up popularity and started popping up in public parks across the country. Off-leash areas are set aside for dogs and their owners. Fenced in, the parks offer room for dogs to romp around, and the concept appeals to dog owners who live in apartments or have small yards. Their dogs are free to run, jump and chase each other without breaking local leash laws. Dogs and their owners can enjoy time outside in a comfortable setting. 

On July 5, 2001, I decided to visit a local dog park for the first time. Not only did I locate the dog park with my dog Luke, I found a stray dog roaming around. Since it was the day after the fireworks of July 4th, the dog may have escaped from the backyard. Without tags, there was no way to identify the dog’s owner. At the time, the local newspaper offered free advertising to lost and found pets. I placed an ad but no owner turned up—so I kept the dog and named her Midnight. She was a terrific companion that died years later in 2013. During the years I visited the off-leash areas, my dogs got exercise and I spent time chatting with friends. We all soaked up the fresh air.    

A chance mailing from the Audubon Society changed my life again a few years ago. An annual calendar was inside, so I sent in a small donation. Soon thereafter, the Society’s magazine arrived, teaching me about birds, which, admittedly, I knew very little about—other than factory farmed chickens were brutally maltreated and that pigeons crapped on my car. I knew a lot about shelter animals but rarely saw a bird behind bars except once. A stray pelican found its way to a shelter in Boulder Colorado where I had volunteered in the early 1990s. How the bird arrived in our midst was a mystery. Shelter staff arranged with an airline to transport the bird to a Florida sanctuary. Staff and volunteers gathered to bid the plucky bird farewell. 

During the 2020 COVID-19 lockdown, I started taking short walks with my friend, Julie, at the Riparian Preserve, a public treasure in Gilbert, AZ, near our homes.

The walks helped my mobility, hampered by the accident. The walks also introduced both Julie and me to the wonderful world of birds and the greenery of the preserve. There’s several large ponds, filled with treated waste water, where the birds gather, mostly ducks, mallards, and geese. Pelicans are frequent spring time visitors. Not knowing what to feed our feathery friends, we asked an associate at a PetSmart store for a recommendation. Cracked corn, she said. So we keep a bag of cracked corn in our cars and toss out the food to the birds gliding across the pond—they’re so fun to watch.

We’ve become attached to a pair of ducks, a crested duck and a white duck called an American Pekin, that are always together, like best friends, brother and sister or husband and wife. We call the crested duck Penny Pup because one of Julie’s dogs, Penny Pup, has an extra fluff of fur on the top of her head. Crested ducks are born with what looks like a feathery cotton ball on their heads. Each week, we can’t wait to see Penny Pup and her friend, the American Pekin. I guess we should name the white duck.

Though one week we didn’t see our feathery friends. Where could they be? The Phoenix weather heats up in May. The large pond empties out by the time we arrived, usually about 10 a.m. I said let’s look in the bushes. Voila, we found our feathered friends.

I can’t explain why we’ve become so attached to these two ducks but they’ve become like our pets. I wish I had a pond at home so I could ask the preserve to take them home, but I live in a small apartment. No room for a pond. Barely enough room for my adopted dog Whitley and me. The ducks and geese seem content, however. They have sufficient places to swim, bushes to escape from the harsh summer sun, and friendly visitors like Julie and me who toss out food. On our visits, we run into birders with binoculars gazing at birds. Since we’re new to birding, we often stop to ask questions, and the birders are pleased to share information. I look up data online but it’s always nicer to hear in person from someone more knowledgeable.

Walking among the woodsy area to the sound of birds chirping is soothing, calming and relaxing. I’m regretful I didn’t discover the preserve sooner. I look forward to our walks each week and looking for Penny Pup and her friend.

The loss of my career at the age of 39 crimped my budget. A lot. Instead of vacations I couldn’t afford, I’ve taken day trips with friends to the Arizona high country. I enjoyed my time visiting pretty parks and recreational areas in places like Payson, Prescott and Sedona. I once visited an animal sanctuary situated among the stunning red rocks of northern Arizona and southern Utah.  

Nature is cheaper than therapy and a healthier alternative than bar hopping. A walk in the woods is as therapeutic as any happy pill. Plus, there’s no side effects. The outdoors gives and gave me time with friends, the environment and animals, a true prescription for healing and joy.

I regret that I can longer bike up a mountain or swim in a country creek, but I spend time outdoors when possible. The summer heat is a challenge but winter time in Phoenix is spectacular.

Despite the accident, I’m blessed with my outdoor activity, as limited as it is.