The Hop Scotch Artist

On Saturday morning, I went running. No planning goes into my runs. If get my eyesight in and my running shoes on and my body out the door my darlings,  that is significant.

So, at the bottom of the driveway, I went right that morning instead of the habit of left.

The on-the-fly decisions came up at the end of every block. Okay, up here and then I'll hang a right down there and  then left up the hill, internal point of my finger down to Glenwood Avenue. And then, I'll circle back home.

I was running up that here. I crested the hill and smiled. A little hop scotch floor plan drawn on the very edge of this quiet, seldom car driven stretch of road. Yellow chalk.

Ten feet, twenty, it kept going. And going. Half a mile later, still that hop scotch trail mixed in with the sweet smell of the first early summer clover and the perfect breeze. Nearing the intersection, numbers made an appearance in each square: 175. 148. 103. 71. 64. 32. 29. 14 counting me to 1.

Thank you, nameless Hop Scotch Artists.  You made me smile during a run and that is almost nearly impossible and very, very rare.  I can hear you in my head, showing your parents, "It's so long, you wanna see it?" Giggling. That night, I bet your little backs were achy, muscles stretched and tight, the tips of your fingers scraped, yellow chalk underneath your nails.

I want to go back quite badly before some rain shower takes your masterpiece away. Under the moon, tonight, with a rock to toss.