Halloween Solo

Awaiting the visit of little ghosts and goblins tonight, and for the first time awaiting them solo. I'll be on both candy duty and Copper duty this Halloween, and am not quite sure how it all will work except that some chaos will be involved.

I usually see the girls (and now guys) for Thanksgivings and Christmases — but Halloweens not so much. I have an invitation from Claire to come hand out candy at her house, but I would miss the neighborhood kids, three of whom I've watched grow up and who will be moving out next month.

So I'll try to carve the pumpkin and try to keep Copper occupied (or sedated) ... and hope for the best.

It will be noble experiment.

Guido's Venice

I'm not much of a mystery reader, but a few years ago I heard about Donna Leon's Commissario Guido Brunetti series and decided to give it a try.

The books are set in Venice, a city I loved from the first moment I saw it (in my "Europe on $10 a Day" backpacking years).  Police detective Brunetti travels the city on foot or by vaporetti, savoring the sights of his native place and taking the reader with him each step of the way. Each story features a new bridge, square or quiet corner of "La Serenissima," the "Most Serene Republic of Venice."

Brunetti quotes the classics, adores his wife (the brainy and beautiful Paolo) and three-quarters of the way through every story, becomes discouraged and confused. He works his way out of every jam by using his smarts, often colluding with his boss's assistant, Signorina Elettra, a clever young woman who finds a way (sometimes not quite legal) through every dilemma.

I often pick up a Leon mystery when I need distraction. But the books have a funny way of returning me right back to Real Life. This isn't a bad thing, though, because I'm always a little lightened and calmed when I get back.

Old Dog, New Tricks

They said it couldn't be done. They said an old dog can't learn new tricks.

But I know an old dog who's learned one, learned more than one if you want to know the truth.

For the last couple of months, Copper has been visited by his doggie cousins, Reese and Bella, a pair of German shepherds being raised by Copper's original "mama," Claire. Claire loves doggies, and now she has about 160 pounds of doggies living in her house. But she still has room in her heart for her original "son."

Copper, who can be a bit curmudgeonly and crotchety, originally reacted much as we thought he would when first Reese and then Reese and Bella came to visit.  He was standoffish and snarly.

But something happened to him when he finally got to know Bella. A younger female seemed like a dog he could handle. At first they just sniffed each other, but eventually they began to play. And now Reese, much larger, a male, is also included in the games.

Last night Copper (10 or more years their senior) led his doggie cousins on a merry chase, taking the corners of the yard like the mostly border collie that he is.

And ... there was only one almost-fight ... over an ice cube.

As far as I can tell we've had a canine miracle in these parts: An old dog learning a new trick!

Sweet Tea

I'm not talking about the syrupy sweet iced tea found in southern climes, but about what I drink every morning, the piping hot brew of Barry's Decaffeinated. Still, though it may not be quite as cloying as teeth-aching sweet tea, it is loaded with milk and sugar, especially sugar.

I've long since accepted my sweet tooth — would never try to drink my tea bitter and black. But what I would like to do is slowly reduce the amount of sugar I use. I've fantasized that I could figure out a way to do this crystal by crystal, a slow and steady de-sweetening that would lead me to healthier habits.

If not crystal by crystal, then maybe one-eighth (one-sixteenth?!) teaspoon by one-eighth teaspoon.

I may get stuck just one-eighth teaspoon into this scheme ... but at least I would be trying.

Morning Post

Lately, because of a new glitch in the blogging platform, I've been writing many of my posts the night before. This is not the way I like to blog. There is something about the morning that suits me.

Maybe it's because the muse is more active at this time of day. Or maybe it's because I'm closer to dreamscapes.

For instance, today I awoke near a border. It had to be with Mexico though in sleep I was convinced it was with Spain. It was sunny and hot. There was surveillance.

This was the not the meat of the dream, only a small side course. But it's what stuck with me — and that it stuck with me at all is because I'm writing this in the wee hours.

The morning post. It's not the only way to go, but I'm convinced it's the best.

Moon Walk

The story last night was the moon, large and sultry and almost full. I had already walked in the morning, but when I got home last night I had to walk a little bit more, just to keep it company.

I watched it through the trees, waited for it to rise high enough to snap a shot of it free and clear.

But the chili was simmering on the stove back home, darkness was falling, and I realized I was strolling along neighborhood streets (no sidewalks, of course) wearing all black.

It was time to go home. The moon would have to wait. So I snapped a few more photos ...

Then called it a night ...

A Birthday, an Anniversary

The birthday of an oldest child is also an anniversary of parenthood. I celebrate a big one today.

I've been reliving the days and weeks leading up to Suzanne's birth — how I'd wanted her to see the autumn leaves, but how the trees were almost bare by the time she was born in Concord, Massachusetts, on October 23. It didn't dawn on me at the time that (in addition to the fact that she would be a newborn and focusing no further than the faces in front of her!) we wouldn't always live there. I had no idea that by her first birthday we'd be living in Virginia, where the leaves have barely started changing in late October.

But here we are — and more to the point, here she is. After years in Africa, Suzanne now lives with her husband only 20 miles away. It's only one of many amazing zigs (zags?) of the marvelously zigzagging road of parenthood. Which began for me (gulp!) 30 years ago today.

Happy Birthday, Suzanne!

Window Seat

Usually I sit on the aisle. But not when the American West is involved. Yesterday I grabbed a window seat so I could snap the vistas when I saw them ... the jagged peaks and dark valleys.

... a river snaking through brown hills,

... a blue lake shaped like a jigsaw puzzle piece,

... and the snowy, showy Grand Tetons.

I was never quite sure where I was — but my phone camera's location finder knew. We flew over the Cascades, down to Pomeroy in southeastern Washington State. From there over Sugar City and Dubois, Idaho, to Bridger-Teton and Medicine Bow National Forests in Wyoming. And from there, we flew into Denver.

Those were the geographic realities. But from my window seat I saw only shapes and shadows, geometric purity. It seemed like I was seeing the essence of things.

Seattle Fog

Yesterday morning the fog in the air matched the fog in my brain. It flitted between my ears like so much cotton batting. I walked to the light rail line hoping both fogs would clear, the internal and the external.

I was optimistic, because it was already brightening, and though my breath came out in clouds, the humidity added warmth.

By 2 p.m., the sky was blue, and we'd found a place to grab some lunch. The mind was thinking clearer.  And the Seattle fog ... was gone.

The Hills

To live in a city of hills is to know long views and low valleys. It's to feel that pain in the back of the legs that comes from uphill climbs. It's to know the slow trudge and the quick downhill.

It's not always easy, but ease is not always the point.

As I prepare to leave Seattle tomorrow, I will keep many images in my heart, snapshots of a city that Celia has grown to love.

I will remember the city blocks and the flaming maples and Mount Rainier looking down on it all.

It has brought a psalm to mind — timeless, eternal source of strength: "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help."

Kubota Garden

It's where Seattle goes on a sunny day ... or at least it felt that way last Sunday. There were lovers and families and dog walkers. The elderly in wheel chairs and walkers. Cameras with tripods, their earnest photographers snapping shots of engaged couples and even a bride.

Kubota Gardens is an oasis of green in the midst of the city. Even a city as green as Seattle, one nestled between water and mountains, needs the relaxation potential of an urban park. Kubota satisfies all the senses: the splash of water, the aroma of autumn leaves — and everywhere, flaming foliage, artful arrangements of flower and leaf and grass.

This time of year, Kubota is a riot of reds, oranges and yellows, as the Japanese maple, euonymus and  gingko flare up in their rich tones.

I did a lot of people watching on Sunday, a lot of strolling and stopping, a lot of deep breathing. It was just the respite I needed before a hectic week.

Other People's Houses

You can call it a bed and breakfast, an Airbnb or a VRBO (Vacation Rental By Owner), but when you come right down to it, you're staying in someone else's house. Someone you didn't know before and will probably never see again.

But while you're there (here), you become intimately acquainted with the play of morning light on window blinds, the amount of pressure required to turn the faucet, the location of the bathroom light switch so you can flick it on in the dark.

I'm a private person, one who doesn't take naturally to early morning conversation with strangers while making a cup of tea ... but somehow, this works for me.

It's calming to stay in a house rather than a hotel. It feels as if I'm part of a community and not just visiting. And indeed I am — just one member of a band of travelers who want to see a place from the inside out.

Peak Experience

The Chief Sealth Trail winds its way through southeastern Seattle for almost five miles. Though I'd read about it in my Airbnb welcome note and tried to find it on a map, it was proving elusive to pinpoint — at least in cyberspace.

In the long run I literally ran into it. Walking down 32nd Street, I saw a rise, an opening, a grassy meadow, a break in the cityscape. It was the trail!

I turned left, and the sight almost took my breath away. There was Mount Rainier looming large in the sunset sky.  I couldn't find an angle that didn't involve power lines, but there it was, Seattle's iconic mountain.

When I reached my place, I told Cris, Airbnb host, how excited I was to spot the peak. Oh yes, she said. But you can see it from our house, too. She led me to the dining room window, pointed off in the distance. And there it was again, only slightly less imposing.

Sometimes, peak experiences are closer than you think.

A Walker in Seattle

We've been walking up hills and down, from Pioneer Square to the International District, then hopping a bus to Ballard where we walked some more.  We chugged up hills as steep as San Francisco's, and stopped at a local watering hole for sustenance.

I've already walked one route twice, from my Airbnb to Celia's place. And last night I finally found the Chief Sealth Trail (more about that later).

For now, I'll just say that Seattle has rolled out its grandest strolling weather for this walker in the suburbs. ... walker in Seattle, I should say.

Coast to Coast

Speaking of "above it all," ... I'm about to take off for Seattle, a flight from Washington, D.C., to Washington State. In fact, I'm writing this at Dulles Airport while a history program on the popes of Avignon — "the papacy was more or less captured by the king of France" — drones on the television.

From one extreme  — an expanse of sky; the miracle of flight; a miracle, period — to the other, the absurdity of the particular.

Modern travelers are strung between these two. The wonder of the firmament outside, cramped seats and coffee inside.

Here's hoping that the miraculous part of this flight holds up its end of the bargain.

Above It All

A few hours before Tuesday's monuments tour, my colleagues and I gathered on a rooftop to share drinks and dinner. This is the view that greeted us.

I've lived here for decades and never before seen a rainbow over the Washington Monument. It looks like there should be a pot of gold buried somewhere at its base — but I didn't find it when we visited later that night.

It was the view that was golden: The city spread out at our feet, the low buildings, the honeycomb of highways, the late-day light.

Monuments at Night

Last night, a tour of the Washington, D.C., monuments at night. There was Lincoln, the great man's right foot protruding slightly, as if he were about to push himself up and walk out to greet the beleaguered citizens gathered there.

What would he say? What could he say? Seeing him made me long for a statesman or stateswoman, someone larger than life who will come to save us all, who will do the right thing no matter the political consequences.

The scale of the monuments only grows in the darkness. Darkness is what we had last night — a rich, warm darkness that meant we could stroll around in shirt sleeves the second week of October. But darkness is what we have in a metaphorical sense, too. And that darkness isn't as comfortable.

I took heart from the lights and the sounds, the throngs of people staying up late to see the marble and the fountains, those who — I hope — still believe.

Decluttering Times Two

Am I the last of a dying breed? Not just a dying breed, but a unique breed — perhaps one of the only generations that must manage both digital and actual files? I've spent part of an evening pulling photographs off an old computer that is less-than-accessible due to charging issues, and as I've been doing so, I've wondered, do we have any parallels in history?

Were there once people who had to contend with both stone tablets and papyrus? With the scroll and the codex?

As the pace of change increases, the pace of managing that change falls on the shoulders of those who not only have a crammed-full hard disk but also scores of musty, sagging boxes in the basement.

Where to start? How to proceed? One must be ruthless on both scores, I suppose, must pitch the papers and books — plus ancient computer files, too. Yesterday was a good day for that, with a sheaf of papers recycled at the office, and desktop computer files trashed at home. It's a bit like bailing out the ocean with a thimble — but it's a start.

(How many of these need to go? Quite a few!)

Creeping Numeralism

It was called the zoning improvement plan, but went by its chipper acronym, Zip. And it wasn't adapted quickly, wrote John Kelly in yesterday's Washington Post. Zip codes met with "pockets of resistance," he said, including from the White House, which omitted "20500" from its official stationery, even though President Lyndon Johnson had ordered federal agencies to start using the five-digit code a month or so earlier, in June 1965.

Americans may have been sick of numbers, Kelly said. Three years earlier they'd had to start including Social Security numbers on their tax returns. That same year, 1962, AT&T introduced "all-number" calling — which put an end to such notable exchanges as BUtterfield 8 and MUrray Hill 6. 

In fact, Kelly reports, there was an "Anti-Digit Dialing League" created to fight "creeping numeralism." 

I wonder what the anti-numeralists would think of life in 2018. Today I created three new passwords, all letter-number-symbol combinations. In the course of doing that I was sent at least four different codes that would expire in minutes or hours. Numbers were texted to me, which I then used to create new letter-number codes. 

As I wrote recently, the world has been heading toward numeralism for at least 400 years. Now we have Zip-plus-four. Put me in the words column, though. I'll fight "creeping numeralism" wherever I find it. 

(Mr. Zip courtesy Wikipedia)

Fading Beauty

The wedding was at 5 p.m., but there was time to meander along a Meadowlark Garden trail toward Lake Gardiner, to see the late-summer salvia and coleus, the asters and ornamental grasses.

It had been cloudy most of the day, but the sun had come out a few hours earlier and warmed the air.

With each turn of the gravel trail the eye took in another artful arrangement of fern and grass and frond.

What a balm for the spirit is a mellow fall afternoon, the air just warm enough, the scent of crisp leaves. After the frenetic growth of summer, the fading is welcome. The beauty seems to come from the fading. And there is comfort in that.

Two-Walk Day

Walking early this morning and walking again later, I hope. The two-walk day is one I've come to appreciate. Walks like bookends, like brackets. Walks that hold you up, that wake you up, that keep you sane.

I've always felt this way, but lately more than ever.

For what is a life but the steps we take of it, the twists and turns we make of it. The people we help along the way.

The two-walk day gives me twice as long to ponder these truths and mysteries.

Labyrinth

Last night the pavement unfurled like a gift. It caught my feet and led me through the dark. It gave me room to breathe.

Earlier in the evening, October fireflies crawled up from the ground, blinking as yellow as the road marks I wrote about yesterday. If the fireflies could do it, so could I.

So I donned a headlamp and reflective vest and took off down the newly lined road.

The air was cool on my arms; it had the weight of summer air. It buoyed me as I strode past lamplit houses. It calmed me with its passage.

Last night, the road was my labyrinth.

Yellow Lines

The trees are starting to turn, just the first hints of yellow and gold. And Folkstone Drive is following suit. After weeks and months of being a work in progress, the road has two long yellow stripes down the middle of it.

It picks up the mood of the season. Bright yellow school buses, crisp orange leaves, and, if you're lucky, a stand of Black-eyed-Susans, though more far gone than these.

Yesterday's walk took me up and back beside the new yellow lines.

It was a still, warm afternoon that held me as I sauntered. It was good to be walking.

Green and Gray

Ireland seems like another world already. It is another world, of course, or at least another country. But it's one I'm going to imagine now, because the fields are so green and the stones are so gray and the two go so well together.

There was a feeling there that everything will be all right in the end. A strange feeling, when you think about the history of the place. But a cozy, warm feeling.

Maybe it's the gallows humor there or the expectations, which aren't as high as those on this side of the Atlantic. But whatever it is, I'm going to be drawing on it today.

Mellow Sunshine

Over the weekend, as D.C. reeled from yet another emotional and divisive week, the weather gave us a gift: days of mellow sunshine and low humidity, scant clouds. Not Indian Summer, not yet, because we haven't had a frost. More like the early September days we hoped for but didn't receive.

There's a thinness in the air this time of year that allows us to enjoy the warmth, not dread it.  I remember feeling this thinness while doing homework in early September during grammar school. Sitting on the front stoop, wearing my green-and-gray-plaid uniform and a too-tight pair of saddle shoes or penny loafers, still in love with my cartridge pen with peacock blue ink.

Somehow, those memories are all mixed up with the feel of the September air, not quite fall but not quite summer, either. A glorious in-between time.

That's what we had this weekend, even though we've just entered October, what we're promised through the week. If you listen closely you'll hear a collective sigh of gratitude.