Multiplicity

When I was a full-time freelancer, I often wrote articles for Working Mother magazine. One of their mantras was that women (people in general, but their audience was women) are happier when they have multiple roles — when they're not just mothers ... but mothers and accountants or mothers and baristas or mothers and CEOs. Or, in my case, a mother and a writer.

So today, in addition to being grateful for another trip around the sun; in addition to being especially thankful that my family is together to celebrate — I'm also grateful for my work, for the opportunity I have to be creative for a good purpose, and for the new friends I've made around the globe.

Because it's not just the work, it's the many worlds it has opened for me. It's another dimension of life that my own mother, as creative and work-oriented as she was, did not have.

Nothing is more important to me than my family, the amazing young women I'm proud to call my daughters. But I'm so filled with joy and gratitude that I live in a time when being a mother is not the only thing I am. The many roles I have a chance to play enrich my life daily. And today, especially, I'm so thankful that they do.

Postponed Post

As the Seattlites sleep in (still on Pacific Daylight Time), I've lingered over my second cup of tea, which followed a long walk before the humidity began to surge, which followed almost eight hours of sleep.

This is what a life of leisure would be like, I tell myself (minus the time answering a couple work emails and putting up an away message).

I could get used to this.

(This posting was postponed by ... people waking up and coming over!)

The Return

Apart from Suzanne's long sojourn in Africa, I've never had one of my kids be away as long as Celia has. She left more than 11 months ago, bound for the Pacific Northwest. She's built a new life for herself there.

But that doesn't stop me from missing her.  The last time I saw her, she gave me a little charm, a small shell that someone had given her when she left for the West Coast. I've kept it close ever since.

When I miss her even more than usual, I stroke the whorls of the shell, lift it up and inhale its scent, hoping that some trace of hers lingers on it.

We miss our children differently than we do our spouses or our parents or our friends. There is a visceral longing at times — I just want to hold her, give her a huge hug.

And, God willing, later today, I will.

Rainy Tuesday

The weekend weather was sunny and hot, perfect for Memorial Day. And the rain quite politely held off until this morning. I noticed the first faint drops on an early walk.

At first they seemed little more than moisture squeezed out of humid skies. But by the time I'd returned home and brewed a pot of tea the drops had turned into a deluge, and I drove to Metro with foggy windows on puddling roads.

It was a tropical rain that fell, sheets and sheets.  I think of the flowers I just planted by the mailbox. They'll be getting a long drink of water. And the ferns that are still in winter-basement mode (which is to say, half dead) ... they will love the way this day is starting out.

Even humans don't seem to mind terribly much. We're heading back to the office anyway. So let the raindrops fall ...

Last Monday in May

It's Memorial Day and the dust is flying. Though today is the holiday, the big celebration is two days away when my youngest daughter and her husband arrive from Seattle. There has been more cleaning than usual going on here.

One of the things I found in my dustings and scrubbings was an American flag. There's no pole to fly it from, though, so I'm thinking of hanging it out the window (after I figure out which way to arrange it).

As I do, I'll be thinking of my favorite veteran (my dad), all who've served, and all who are no longer with us. I wish we could all be together on this last Monday in May.

Buds, Blooms and Petals

The climbing roses reached their peak yesterday. I snapped photos of them from every angle, and Claire took photos with her new phone camera, too.

I tried to drink in their beauty as I scrubbed the porch table and chairs, as I removed the green film from the outside of the flower pots.

I tried to enjoy them during dinner with the storm that would be their undoing already making itself felt in the heavy air and ominous clouds.

I think I was successful, in as much as we humans every fully are. To savor the moment, the perfection of the bud and bloom, knowing full well the pile of petals that will follow — that about sums it up, doesn't it?

Grand Journey

Mom and Dad would have been married 67 years today. They made it to their 61st, which is quite a long run by modern standards. I bet I'm the only person remembering this today. Maybe not. My sister or brothers might be remembering it, too.

I was thinking a lot about their honeymoon when Drew and I took our road trip a couple weeks ago. Mom and Dad were married in Lexington, Kentucky, their hometown, but they took off immediately in an old Chevy bound for California.

The roads were barely all paved in 1952 — the interstate highway program officially began the next year — and though they were fine if they stuck to Route 66 ... they didn't always do that. They were prone to taking detours to "Kit Carson's Cave" and other spots that piqued their curiosity.

Still, they made it to the West Coast, where they planned to start their married life. It was glamorous and exciting ... but it wasn't home. A few weeks later, they turned around and drove back.

It was the beginning of a grand journey together — and I'm thinking about it, and them, today.

Two Graduations

On Friday, I watched my son-in-law Appolinaire graduate from Northern Virginia Community College. Yesterday I watched my niece Maggie graduate from Johns Hopkins medical school. Two very special achievements, two very different graduations.

The Johns Hopkins ceremony was held at Meyerhoff Hall in downtown Baltimore, home of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. The NOVA graduation was held at the outdoor concert venue Jiffy Lube Live, where you can hear Dead & Company or Wiz Khalifa. 

The Johns Hopkins event was only for Ph.D.'s and M.D.'s, so everyone was hooded. The NOVA event was only for associate degrees and certificates, so no one was hooded.

At Maggie's graduation, the newly minted doctors rose and recited the Hippocratic Oath, which Maggie's sharp-eyed great-aunt noticed did not include the phrase "First, do no harm." (That's because those words aren't in the Hippocratic Oath.) 

At Appolinaire's graduation, the dean asked graduates to "rock this house" as they answered a series of questions she posed to them. Questions like: How many of you were born in another country? How many of you speak a language other than English? How many of you are the first in your families to go to college? It looked like three-fourths of the graduates rose and cheered each time. I know that Appolinaire did.

What struck me most, however, was how in the deep-down important ways, these ceremonies were the same. The graduates grinned just as broadly, the families whooped and hollered just as loudly and "Pomp and Circumstance" (as usual) brought a tear to my eye.

An accomplishment is an accomplishment. I'm so proud of them both! 

From Above

The climbing roses are hitting their peak, creamy pink flowers on a carpet of green. While you can enjoy them from the deck or yard, they are best seen from a second floor bedroom window, where I snapped this shot.

I think there may be a life lesson in this: getting up and above things to see them whole.

With the climbing roses, as with life, perspective is all.

The Detour

They're working on Fox Mill Road, the quasi thoroughfare, quasi byway that links me to Metro and beyond. Conveniently, the detour starts just beyond my neighborhood, so at least for now the way home and back is clear. What isn't convenient is that the detour runs right through my neighborhood.

Which meant that last night wasn't the best evening to go for a post-dinner stroll. Still, that's what I did — complete with headlamp and reflective vest.

It was busier than a typical Monday evening. I found myself stepping off the road more times than I would like. But even the higher-than-usual car volume couldn't mar the peaceful evening, couldn't banish the night sounds, lift the heavy air or blunt the honeysuckle scent that almost overpowered me at the corner.

The walk was my detour, too, a departure from my normal routine, my own diversion from the day.

Finally Summer

Summer arrived yesterday, or maybe it was the day before. It rolled in on clouds of humidity and the sound of frogs croaking in the night. It shimmered in the still afternoon and whispered in the breeze that stirred the new leaves.

Summer always seems to me the normal season, the way things ought to be always. So ... things are back to normal now. And they will be for another few months or so.

I wouldn't want to live where it was always summer.

But I'm glad it finally is summer again.

 

Begin the Day

May is unfolding slowly here, with cool nights and days that stay firmly in the 70s. I think that's about to change soon, so I'm enjoying this cool morning and the bird song I hear as I write this post.

The trees have fully leafed out and the annuals I've planted are taking root. In the front yard, the breakout roses have snuck up on me again. (They're not as full and healthy as the roses here ... I wish ... but given the shade in which they struggle, at least they're still alive.) In fact, all is green and growing here, especially the weeds!

Inside, clocks are ticking, Copper is napping (after our walk at 7) and I'm grabbing a few quiet moments of what promises to be a busy one.

Thinking of all the possibilities ...

It's a good way to begin the day.

Driving in the West

On Tuesday we drove from Moab to Denver so I could catch my afternoon flight. I took the first shift behind the wheel, as we left the red rocks and headed east.

Driving in the western U.S. is a completely different activity than driving here. The mechanics are the same, but the similarity ends there. The roads are wide open and speed limits are high (80 in Utah!).

I didn't do much but hold the wheel, keep my foot on the gas and drink in the scenery. For the first two hours there were mesas and buttes and big skies. The Spotify music Drew found was the perfect accompaniment, especially the Jupiter movement from Holst's "The Planets."

In fact, the big brass and soaring melody seem to have been written not for the cold wastes of a celestial body — but for the awe-inspiring landscape I saw out my window.

Decades of Home

Last night, I arrived home from my short trip to visit Drew out West. I couldn't help but think that 30 years earlier to the day (impossible to fathom!), I stepped off another plane with baby Suzanne in my arms as we began our new life in Virginia. Tom had arrived early to meet the moving truck while Suzanne and I snuck in a quick visit to Kentucky, so he picked us up at the airport and drove us to our new home.

It was a beautiful spring evening when we arrived at Fort Lee Street, a time of the day I know now (from hanging out with photographers) is called "the golden hour." And I still remember that light, how soft it was, how full of promise.

Though the trees were shorter then, the neighborhood looked established, lived in. Kids had a game of touch football going in the yard across the street. There were two little girls next door and another one from down the street. I looked at the throng, thought of the playmates and babysitting potential, and smiled.

The next morning, Tom woke up and went in for his first day of work (which means he's celebrating a work anniversary today, though he doesn't make a big deal of it).

All this is to say that our roots in this clay soil go deep. They weren't supposed to ... but they did —and still do.

At Arches

How to describe the wonders we saw yesterday — the sandstone arches and pillars and domes?

They seem to be designed for a Hollywood western stage set. And yet they were real: a rough beauty.

 Luckily, I was traveling with my brother, who among other fine qualities also happens to be a geologist. He could point out the striations in the rock and explain that Balanced Rock probably wouldn't topple while we were standing beneath it — or anytime this century.

And as for the double arches, they would be there for generations of other tourists to stand beneath, and marvel.

Colorado Sunday

Springtime in Colorado, snow in the high peaks, streams running strong from the melt. And tucked away in the southern part of the state, the tallest dunes in North America.

Formed by wind and weather, the dunes are a natural playground. Dogs frolic, teens toss footballs, kids drag sleds up a steep slope and slide down.

It was a beach without the ocean, a hill without the pine trees. It was more like a mountain warm-up act, with snow-capped peaks in the background.

And afterward, there was a drive through a constantly changing landscape, ending with red rocks. More on those tomorrow.

Peony for your Thoughts

It's been here for decades, this peony. It doesn't always thrive; some years it doesn't even bloom. But it remains. A stalwart.

Does it like where it's been planted? It looks more comfortable than usual this year. The greenery is full and the ants were in place (which is required, I believe), so I tucked the mulch carefully around the stems, and snapped this shot.

The peony was one of the originals I ordered in my early attempt at an English cottage garden, an idea that didn't flourish in this hard-packed Virginia clay soil. But it reminds me of my youthful enthusiasm and my gardening naïveté. It harkens back to a time before deer ate most of the plants and stilt grass had yet to invade our turf.

But enough of this gardening gloom. It's May, and the peony (singular) is in bloom. All's right with the world!

Late-Day Stroll

Copper and I had a delicious late evening walk the other night. There was a sliver of a fingernail moon just setting in the west, along with the sun.

There were birds darting everywhere, finishing up their late-day chores before bedding down for the night. There were bats, too, I suppose, just starting their day, though we didn't see any.

Mostly, we just strolled at the pace that has become our own, which is to say much slower than either of us goes individually. He sniffed, I mulled. It was meditative, like pacing a labyrinth.

It was the perfect way to end the day.

Grateful Acceptance

This ought to be an issue more than it is — accepting a Metro seat, that is. The truth is, very few are offered to me.

There are many ways to look at this. On one hand, you could say that people are selfish louts who seldom look up from their phone screens. Chivalry is not only dead, it's frowned upon.

But the fact is, people are reluctant to give up seats not only because they enjoy sitting in them, but also because they're unsure of the etiquette. Will a "woman of a certain age" be offended if said seat is offered? Will she take it as insult or generosity? So there's the ambiguity issue.

But beyond that, there is, I was thinking yesterday, the acceptance issue. I often refuse the few seats offered to me. "I've been sitting all day," I say. Or, "I don't have many stops to go ..." (in actuality, I get off at the end of the line).

Yesterday, however, I gratefully accepted the seat. I'd been sitting all day, so I didn't need it. But I was glad to mute the Metro experience by sticking my nose in a book. I accepted the seat the young man (and he was a young man, with a neat haircut and wireless ear buds) generously offered. And I accepted it without hesitation. Graceful acceptance: sometimes it's pressed upon us.

(Grabbing a seat no problem in this empty train!)

Grandfather Clock

It was almost dark when the four large boxes arrived. We knew they were on their way, and Tom was eagerly awaiting them. The boxes held a grandfather clock that's been in his family for years. It sat in the hallway of the house where he was raised, then his sister Ginna took good care of it for more than a decade, and now, through her generosity, it sits in our living room.

So many memories of this clock, the hall it graced in the house in Indianapolis, the sights it has seen, the wonderful family that grew up around it.

There was some debate about where to put it, but the spot where it landed (or maybe a few more inches to the right!) makes it seem as if it always was there.

The arrival of such a timepiece, such a legacy, is big news indeed, and I'm sure I'll have more to say about it in posts to come. But I wanted to welcome it today — and note that although it hasn't run in years, it was set up at 9 p.m. on the nose. Which is exactly the hour it marks.

Sun Screen

Driving to Metro this morning I was squinting most of the way. It was full-on sun as I headed east. An early, low sun that slanted beneath my visor and almost blinded me at times.

I was counting on this sun, hoping it would warm the air and brighten the day. And it was complying. But it was doing it with such urgency that I felt within it the slow, sluggish air of July.

It was then — and later, as I loped around the block a couple times waiting for the bus — that I felt grateful for my sunglasses. When I put them on, the glare goes away, and I feel cooler, in more ways than one.

Even more than that, I feel protected, tucked away. As if the glasses screen me not just from the sun but from everything else, too.

Sorting Day

Yesterday was cool and rainy, the perfect day to sort through drawers and throw away receipts. It began with a search for my national parks pass (not yet found), but continued long beyond that.

I amassed a pile of credit card receipts and tossed all but 2019's. Along the way, I found a plethora of pool passes, a few expired gift cards and some stray Girl Scout badges, never sewn onto sashes.

It was, on the whole, a calm and meditative practice, sorting through old eyeglass holders, foreign currency and stray sewing kits — the kind of odd conglomeration that can only accumulate over time.

At the bottom of one drawer was a checkbook from Chemical Bank in New York. Haven't heard about them in a while. No wonder. They merged with Chase in 1996.

It was that kind of afternoon.

Happy Global Big Day!

Today is Global Big Day, when hundreds of thousands of birders from the U.S. and around the world list the birds they see and hear on the eBird app designed by the Cornell Ornithology Lab. The data they supply is used to tell people where birds are in real time and also to do cool things like have farmers flood their fields to give wetland-loving birds a place to land.

Using the information supplied by regular birders tramping through woods and fields, binoculars and phones in hand, Cornell has built a citizen science powerhouse that is actually saving the lives of hundreds of thousands perhaps millions of birds every year.

The flooded fields are one example of this. The birders' information feeds a digital map that tracks the travels of migrating species. Knowing that a flock of water birds is heading their way, farmers can flood their fields, giving the birds a temporary wetland in which to land for the night.

This concept originated with a Nature Conservancy scientist who came up with the idea of "renting habitat" instead of buying it. The flooded fields accomplish just that. But it's the eBird app that makes the flooded fields possible.

Wouldn't it be nice if more technology was like this?

(Tufted titmouse photo courtesy Cornell eBird)

A Modest Proposal

For the last couple weeks I've been single-tracking it, consumed with a big project at work that is absorbing most of my waking hours. It's still under wraps, this project, but suffice it to say that it involves some historical research, some text writing and some speech writing.

It makes me realize how fast the hours can pass when one is engaged in interesting work. But it also makes me realize how important it is to be balanced. It's harder to think of post ideas this week, for instance. It's harder to do my own writing.

Ideally, there would be double the amount of hours in every day. I would have the time to be as absorbed in my own work as I am in the paid stuff. It would still be exhausting, of course, but just think of how productive I could be!

Welcoming May

I'm one day late in welcoming May, my favorite month. It helps that both my sister and I were born in it (though none of my girls, they're summer/fall babies). It helps that the weather is warming and the summer is coming. And there's a certain horse race in Kentucky that can usually be counted on to add some pizazz to the month.

When I was a kid, May also meant the end of school. It was almost more excitement than my little heart could take, a birthday and school's out in one terrific explosion of excitement.

I'm far removed from those rhythms now, but I like to remember them. They remind me of an earlier, slower, more rounded time, when life flowed at a pace resembling sanity.

Now here it is May again ... and so soon. But it's always good to welcome it.

Good Fortune

Though I call this blog A Walker in the Suburbs, my feelings about suburbs are decidedly mixed. I appreciate the greenswards, the sound of spring peepers in the night air, downy woodpeckers at the bird feeder. I chafe at the driving culture, the isolation, the lack of community.

Alice Outwater's Wild at Heart (mentioned last week, too) is reminding me why the suburbs once seemed like Shangri-La. In the late 19th-century, human waste was stored in cesspits and removed by horse-drawn wagons. The horses that pulled those wagons produced millions of pounds of manure, which collected in the streets.

"In 1900 there were well over 3 million urban horses in the U.S., and those city horses deposited enough manure to breed billions of flies, each one a potential vector for disease," Outwater writes.

No wonder people moved out of the cities into what must have seemed like heaven. Grass, trees, manure that was manageable. Walking Copper this morning, I reflected on my good fortune.