“I see trees of green…(What a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong)”, not many red roses, but a few dog walkers, cranberry bogs, and the occasional deer, here in the wonderful world of Rochester, Massachusetts. I’m not a Rochester native, as I grew up in the seaside town of Mattapoisett, but after moving here my freshman year, Rochester is my true home. Rochester, a rural town, gives a natural feel to life. When I step outside, I feel the fresh country air, walk through our moss-infused green grass, and take the time to appreciate the space around me. Stately, old pines and oak trees dot my yard and line my street. As I walk thoughtfully down Clapp Road and Nathaniel’s Way, I listen to the chirping of various robins, cardinals and bluebirds, neighbors’ vehicles slowly passing by, and hear tunes from a radio every once in a while. I smell freshly mowed lawns in front of large colonial style houses. I often see little kids playing in their yards, the occasional teenager shooting hoops, and my favorite is when the deer peek their brown heads through the bushes along the side of the road. I easily connect with family here, as I have an aunt, uncle, and grandmother who live just ten houses down from where my house sits on its quiet corner.
When I take my daily run with my dogs in the cranberry bogs, across from my house, I prepare myself for a natural adventure. I may have to hop over hardened bear droppings, spot deer tracks, or run through a swarming, black cloud of tiny midge bugs. Each time I run there I remember accidentally scaring away a huge great heron, hearing it flap it’s massive feathered wings about five feet away from me and then feeling the rush of air it made. The scarlet bogs are an attractive path for my two very friendly dogs, both Bichon-Shih-Tzu mixes: Honey, white, and Teddy, black and white. I enjoy taking them out for “bog runs”, as they happily strut alongside me as I run down the paths around the large rectangular patches of berries, with their little tongues hanging out when we go back home. Because they are small, we have to be wary of the broad-winged hawks hovering about, their white, brown and black feathers stiffly spread out, like the wings on a plane, as they patrol the area. Regardless of the hawk threat, we still run each day, often running home to a family cookout; the tantalizing sound of burgers and hot dogs, or chicken and steak sizzling on the gas grill, and then eating on the deck, overlooking our little piece of country life.
