GABY’S SIXTH VIDEO—A WALK WITH TOM

Yesterday, I was headed over to the barn to get breakfast started when my cell phone started ringing.

A phone call at five-thirty in the morning is usually bad news. But not this one. It was Tom, telling me he couldn’t make our breakfast group, but asking if I would have lunch with him. I said yes before he even finished the question. And then, of course, I started wondering if there was a problem and what it was that he wanted to talk about.

Tom picked me up around noon. A half hour later we were parked at the entrance to a state park. He pulled out a big cloth shopping bag from the backseat and said, “You up for a picnic in the woods?”

I was. I loved picnics, and I also loved spending time with Tom. We’d been doing stuff like this since we were kids.

What an unbelievably beautiful day for late December. Brilliant blue skies, lots of sun, temp in the low fifties.

Tom has eyes like an eagle. During our walk he pointed out an otter’s den on the side of a frozen brook and a fat gray wren starting to build a nest on a high branch in a bare tree. When the weather turns suddenly warm, the birds who stay up north get confused and think it’s spring.

The melting snow made the ground soggy in most places, but we found a nice flat boulder that was warmed by the sun. We spread out a blanket, and Tom unpacked a bottle of white Burgundy, some salami, and brie and apples and French bread.

The wine loosened my tongue, and I found myself asking Tom something I’d always wanted to ask: why he never talked about the days he played pro hockey.

He avoided the question again and said something like “If you skated for the Flyers in the seventies you don’t go bragging about it.”

I asked him why. And he said, “Do you know what the Flyers’ nickname was back then? The Broad Street Bullies.” Tom went on, “We were a bunch of demented animals. We were told that fighting was more important than skating. I started hating the game. So I quit. I broke my share of noses, and my stick was up in the air more than it was down on the ice. But I just couldn’t keep doing it.”

Tom asked if I felt like walking some more. I would have done just about anything to make the day last longer.

In a few minutes we were in a crab apple orchard. The trees were big and thick and gnarly.

“Come on up with me,” he said, and we climbed to the lowest big branch of a tree. He held out his hand for me, and I tried to act like I climbed trees for a living. Then we scrambled up to the next branch and snuggled into a cozy crook.

Now it was late afternoon. The air was getting cold and crisp again. We had a perfect view of the Berkshires in the distance.

Together, Tom and I watched the pale winter sun start to go down. There was no better place to be, and Tom was the right person to be there with.

I think I’ve said enough for now.

It’s almost Christmas.

Yay.