The Teabag

The first time I saw the tea bag, I barely noticed it was there. It was morning, I'd parked at the high school and was walking through the tunnel to the station. I was rushing, of course, and I figured it was there because someone else had been rushing, too. I paid it little mind.

But the tea bag was there in the afternoon when I walked back to my car. Nothing had disturbed it. No animal had burrowed in it to see what was inside. No one had kicked it into the grass. It looked as clean and untouched at 6 p.m. as it had at 7 a.m.

So I thought more about it. Did it fall out of a box of teabags? Was it perched on top of a cup, its owner unaware until reaching the office that his hot water would never become tea?

The next morning, I decided that if the teabag was still there, I'd snap a shot of it. And so I did. Not because it was anything special. But because it was not.

Rock On!

Last night we went to hear my cousin Marty's band, Rockville Station, play the hits of the 70s and 80s at a dive bar in Bethesda. They opened with "I Feel the Earth Move," an apt tune since I was sitting close enough to the stage that I could fill my insides move with each beat.

Once I'd adjusted to this strange phenomenon, I sat back and enjoyed the show. Here were people my age and older rocking the night away with a lead singer belting out the old tunes and, in a break, introducing her parents to the crowd. They were visiting from Hawaii and had to be in their 90s. The drummer, which turned out to be her husband, looked a little like the angel in "It's a Wonderful Life." His face had the same innocent rapture as Clarence's did when he showed George Bailey his vintage copy of Tom Sawyer. But unlike Clarence, he was so intense that he broke one of his drumsticks during a long riff.

Marty, who played guitar and sang, was one of the younger ones on the stage. Who knew he had these talents? He wore a white cowboy-style shirt and confessed before the show went on that he had once dreamed of being a country-western singer.

Here are people following their bliss. They have day jobs, of course, but they also have alternative lives where they can ... rock on.

Frozen Sea

"A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." — Franz Kafka

I came across this quotation a week ago while reading The Second Mountain by David Brooks — and it took my breath away.  In that way that books can seem to be speaking directly to you, I first read these words as a writer, as in, writing a book will free up, if not a frozen sea, then at least a creative block I've felt off and on for many years.

I was pretty sure that was not the way Kafka intended his words to be construed, though. Today, I've had time to find the larger work of which this is a part. And yes, it is most definitely about the books we read, not the books we write. But it is still powerful, especially when you know it was written by a 20-year-old (!) Kafka, in a letter to a friend. Here it is in context:

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? ... We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.

Civility

Maybe it's something you learn as an editor, that if you're going to take the thoughts and feelings of someone who took the time to write them down on a page, and cover these words with red ink, you'd better do it politely. But I think it's more fundamental, a lesson we learn as children, to treat others kindly and with compassion, as we would like to be treated. You can argue diametrically opposed opinions, but if you do it with kindness and tact, you'll get much further.

I'm hardly the first person to note that civility has disappeared from public discourse. But let me add my voice to the chorus of those bemoaning its absence. Yes, we may hail from different sides of the political aisle, may not see eye-to-eye on much of anything. But can we at least address each other respectfully?

"Courtesies of a small and trivial character are the ones which strike deepest in the grateful and appreciating heart," said Kentucky statesman Henry Clay in another century. I'm hoping we make civility a 21st-century value, too.

(Speaking of Henry Clay, this is the old Henry Clay High School in Lexington, Kentucky, my alma mater.) 

Fading Ferns

The ferns are fading. They've turned crusty and brown. In some light, perhaps, they appear golden. But that's a stretch.

I know it's only seasonal change, but there's something about ferns that speak more than most plants of youth and vigor. And I feel bad for them in this sorry state.

I think back to April and the earliest tendrils, how exciting it is to see these strange things emerge from the cool and leaf-strewn soil.

I think of how well they have served us through the summer, how faithfully they have waved in the breeze, how cannily they have outwitted the hungry deer that stalk these parts.

Yes, they will be back next year, I know. And I'll watch them unfurl and come into their own once again, perhaps even spread, as they are wont to do. But it won't be these ferns. These ferns ... are fading.

Morning After

On the morning after Congress announced the beginning of impeachment proceedings against the 45th president of the United States, I picked the newspaper up off the driveway as I usually do, knowing, before I opened it, how much there would be inside to read.

I had been glued to the television the night before, uncharacteristically watching news instead of a British soap opera, and yet I had to have more of it this morning. This is the way things are now — that after two and a half years of craziness, there will be even more.

Sometimes I think that we've all become addicted to craziness, that we won't know what to do if we ever again have a bland status quo.

But then again, I don't think we'll have to worry about that for a while.

(A blurry Washington, D.C., seen from above and afar. Looks a little like an Impressionist painting, doesn't it?)

Summer and Fall

On the first day of autumn, I walked outside after dark to get something from the car. I was wearing a white nightgown, not the lightest one I have because after a sweltering 90-plus-degree day, the air conditioning was back on.

My purpose was purely practical, but the night was alive with balmy air and the sound of crickets and katydids. I was suddenly aware that despite the seeming permanence of these summer sounds, they are extremely time-limited. The bugs chirp as if they have months to live when it's probably more like weeks.

I was sorry to walk back into the quiet of a darkened house, windows closed against the heat and humidity. It's been a warm summer, and many are longing for a spate of coolness. But I'm not. Say what you will about crisp autumn air, warm wool sweaters and chili simmering on the stove... I wouldn't mind if we had another month of summer swelter.

Stinkbug Season

They fly in from who-knows-where, these funny armored bugs — in from fields where they've been gorging themselves all summer, I guess. And predictably, on warm days late in the season, they congregate on our windows and doors and, if possible, inside the house, too.

A stinkbug announces itself with a whirring sound and, when disturbed, will emit a cloying aroma that smells a little like cilantro.

But in the old days, I knew they were around when I heard a certain kind of shriek, as this house full of girls reacted, I'm afraid to say, in a most gender-stereotyped way. One especially notable occasion happened late one night when a daughter pulled down her window shades only to find that a bunch of stinkbugs had nested there during the day.

Now the bugs are calmly scooped up and cast out when they're found. Not without a shiver, though.

(Luckily, these critters are on the outside of the screen.)

Letting Go

A number of suitcases have been piling up in the basement, suitcases lacking the kind of easy-rolling wheels or with other defects that leave them out of the take-along sweepstakes.

Two of these bags belonged to Mom and Dad. They're older models, of course. And no one else wanted them when we were going through things a couple years ago. So I used them to pack up books and memorabilia that I was bringing back from Lexington — then, after emptying them, tucked them under the basement stairs, where they stayed for at least two years.

But the bags have recently been unearthed and deemed extraneous, so I just moved them up from the basement to the garage. Next step: the Purple Heart pickup.

They're in good shape and will come in handy for someone else, I hope. But it's hard to see them go. I tell myself that things don't matter, that it's the intangibles that count. But each time I get rid of something that was Mom and Dad's, a little bit of them goes, too.

Glory in the Morning

Behold the morning glory volunteers, their seeds slipped into the soil last year, gifts from the past. Back in June they decided to sprout, and now they've grown, twined and, finally, bloomed. I seem to recall their relatives were blue, but no matter, maybe the soil acidity has changed or there's been a mutation. I like these better anyway.

Morning glories make clear the photosensitivity that all plants share. Sunrise and sunset prompt their openings and closings, which is just the obvious part, because it tempers their leaf color and stem strength, too.  

I feel a kinship with morning glories. Like them I bloom in the early hours; it's when I get my best brain work done. By afternoon I often feel as closed up as they look.

The Golden Hour

I almost bailed at the last minute. Standing on the platform in Crystal City, worn out from the usual, I almost jumped on the Blue Line train, which would have connected me to the Orange Line and home.

But I stuck to the plan I'd come up with earlier, which was to drain the last drop from the day, to walk around D.C. in the "golden hour," the one favored by photographers, when light slants low and fetchingly across the landscape.

So I hopped on a Yellow Line train, rode a few stops north into the District, and exited at L'Enfant Plaza. I strolled east down the Mall toward the Capitol, then pivoted and walked west, directly into the setting sun. I missed the bustle of the lunchtime crowd, but the light made up for it.

It created an aurora behind the Monument, dramatic and striking. But I preferred what it did to the red sandstone of the Smithsonian castle, how it warmed and illuminated it, changing it from dour to delightful.

Ambling through the Enid Haupt Garden with its orchids, magnolias and dhobi trees, I felt like I was in some Mediterranean palace. The red stone was terra-cotta and the splash of the fountain was the distant sigh of the sea.

Back in Business

The Washington Monument took a beating in the 2011 earthquake. Visitors inside the observation deck at the time were jostled and struck by falling mortar, and the temblor cracked the obelisk, displacing old stones. 

The monument was closed, then opened, then closed again.  It's been three years since anyone was allowed up in it, but it's back in business today. Coincidentally, I happened by the monument last evening, just in time to snap some shots of our spiffed-up national icon.

Here's what Robert Winthrop said at dedication of the Washington Monument in 1885:

"The storms of winter must blow and beat upon it ... the lightnings of Heaven may scar and blacken it. An earthquake may shake its foundations ... but the character which it commemorates and illustrates is secure."

A Thicket

Yesterday I heard a peep, bright and insistent. It was a sparrow roosting in the bamboo that flanks the west side of the house. The little bird found a good place to shelter.

Our bamboo grove is a mass of leaves and stems, lush and green, some bending, many still upright. I look into the tight center of it all and remember the joy of hidden places, of climbing under the forsythia when I was young, of entering the cinder trail (below) as recently as last Saturday.

It is the human need for enclosure, for a safe spot from which to peer out at the rest of the world. It's Robinson Crusoe and his protective hedge, or our Neanderthal ancestors in their secluded cave. We don't always need it, or always seek it out. But it's good to know that it's there. 

Battling Ants

For several months, we've been engaged in a valiant fight against tiny ants that have taken up residence in the kitchen. Several times they seem to have been vanquished — only to return a few days later with reinforcements.

I have no problem with ants as long as they stay outside. Let them have their ant hills, their cooperative societies, let them lug crumbs around on their little backs. But once they invade my house, I'm going after them.

The problem is, nothing seems to help — no vinegar, diatomaceous earth, no home remedy. Various over-the-counter poisons sideline the critters for a few days ... then they come marching back — not two by two, as the song says, but just as resolutely.

I'm always a little loathe to call in the professionals, whose remedies, I fear, may be worse than the problem itself. But on Friday, I'm officially giving in.  This has evolved from a skirmish to a battle. By the end of the week, it will be a war.

(Hoping there's not something like this under my house.)

September Song

Here's what our recent weather makes me think, and it's something I think often this time of year in the Mid-Atlantic: that if you've been very good and borne up well under summer heat and humidity, September gives you days like these: languid and bright with pleasantly warm noons and lovely cool evenings.

I savor each brief hike, each long, languorous stroll with Copper. I wake to air cooled not by a machine but by night itself, as window fans pull in the loamy coolness and send it swirling around the house.

I know the rains will come, the leaves will tire, turn and fall. But not yet. These golden days are like a love duet between two seasons. They're a September song.

Writing Outside

The far end of the new lounge chair was already exposed, so I whipped away the rest of the waterproof green covering, brushed off the acorns that landed overnight and raised the recliner to the proper angle for writing.

The air is moist with the fullness of summer. Also summer-like is the background music. Crickets sing the sostenuto line, and wrens and sparrows chirp a tremolo. Bluejays screech, and in the distance a crow caws. 

Now the wind has picked up and leaves are stirring. A distant lawn mower whirrs, and a low plane thrums. It strikes me that today's white noise is not unlike yesterday's artless arrangement of fall flora: beautiful in its randomness. 

Shaggy Beauty

A cloudy walk on the Washington and Old Dominion Trail bridle path. Or at least I call it the bridle path. It's the cinder trail that runs alongside the main paved road.

Taking it meant I could avoid the "On your left's" that would surely have been the soundtrack of my walk had I jockeyed for position with the speeding cyclists who cruise up and down the 26-mile ribbon of asphalt on weekend mornings.

The road not taken was just right for the day. I had a close-up view of the autumn foliage, the goldenrod and chicory and wild clematis cascading over greenery. It was a shaggy beauty —profuse, casual, easy on the eye.

Farewell, Express

Yesterday I picked up the Express newspaper offered to me by our Vienna hawker Bobbie. I don't always get this abbreviated, tabloid giveaway version of the Washington Post. But when I don't have the parent paper or something else to read, I pick it up. And I always take it if Bobbie offers it to me. He's a kind soul whose feelings might be hurt if I did not.

But sometimes when I do have the parent paper and Bobbie holds out the Express, I pick it up ... then gently place it on top of the trash can at the entrance to Metro. I don't throw it away — no one has read it yet! — but I do put it up for adoption.

That's what I did yesterday, not even glancing at the headline. Then, on the way home, I saw a copy of Express someone had left behind on the bus. "Hope you enjoy your stinking' phones" said the headline, which caught my eye, then below, the small print: "Add Express to the list of print publications done in by mobile technology. Sadly, this is our final edition."

As you can tell, I'm not an everyday Express reader, but I'm a common-enough one to mourn its passing. There was an irreverence about it, and it was informative, too. Now, another print publication bites the dust, 20 journalists lose their jobs, and a community culture goes away (because Express hawkers drew commuters together).

I'll let Express have the last word here. This is from a small item on its inside front cover:

Nation Shocked! Shocked!
Traditional print news product abruptly goes out of business
In news that scandalized a nation, The Washington Post Express abruptly shut down Thursday, citing falling readership and insufficient revenue. Apparently, everyone riding the D.C. Metro now looks at their phones instead of reading print newspapers. Express editors will miss the newspaper and its readers very much. It has been a pleasure and an honor to provide commuters with this daily dose of this odd news.

Foot Traffic

We are mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, daughters and sons. We are accountants and writers, baristas and producers. But mostly ... we are two legs at the bottom of which are two feet.

That's what matters in the morning. That our feet propel us up the escalator and into the street, where we stride and sidestep, move from conveyance to office. 

Every morning there are slight deviations:  the blaring of a siren as a fire engine rushes past us on 18th Street, the sound of jackhammers as a building is demolished on Crystal Drive. We must wait at the corner, skirt around the window-washers. 

Some days we move quickly, there is a spring in our step. Other days we find ourselves dragging. But the movement is ineluctable. The current moves us ever onward, forward to our days. 

Contemplative Tasks

A walker in the suburbs spends a lot of time thinking. So does a writer in the suburbs (or the city, depending upon whether I'm working at home or at the office).

I think best, though, when I'm doing something else. And I was thinking the other day (see?!) about how certain tasks are perfect for contemplation.

This will come as no surprise to monks and nuns who pray ceaselessly whether they're hoeing a field or baking a fruitcake. They've long since realized how much physical labor lends itself to thought and prayer.

Walking, of course, is one of the most contemplative occupations, which is a large part of why I do it. Others include weeding, mowing, sweeping and ironing.

Each of these deserves its own post (and some have them), but I'm focusing today on what they have in common, on the pulling and the stretching, the pounding and the smoothing — on all the repetitive motions that exercise the muscles so the mind can roam free.

(Once freed, a mind can go anywhere.) 

Waiting Time

A return to the hospital. It doesn’t matter which one. Inside, they are all the same: a world of their own, bright of light and cool of air. If you’re lucky, you find a quiet corner to wait. It will be near an electrical outlet and away from a vent, because when air is 63 degrees, it’s better if it’s not blowing in your face.

You will get busy with the work you brought, not only because it must be done but also because it tethers you to the outside world, a world that vanishes the minute you enter the lobby with its quiet hush. 

There will be no clocks on display in the waiting room. At the nurse’s station, however, a large round analog version with numbers written in a clear black font looms serenely over the scene. 

You realize then that clocks are signs of power. Those who have them are those who are responsible to them, those who have something to do. You, on the other hand, are only waiting. 

Planking Alone

A crowd of people in my office have begun a 30-day planking program — holding ourselves up in a "plank" position, either on elbows or hands. We began at 30 seconds and are working our way up to three minutes.

At 11 a.m. every day we gather in the hallway near the elevators to chat and hold. Thirty seconds of planking isn't much. Three minutes is quite a lot. Adding seconds in small increments attempts to blunt the difference between these two.

This works best when done in company. Someone plays music on their phone, or we share recent celebrity sightings. Someone saw Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg in the Philadelphia train station. Someone else bumped into the heir to the British throne — that is, literally bumped into Prince William. Twice!

When I'm not in the office, I plank on my own.  I set my phone to two minutes 10 seconds or whatever the time might be, get down on the floor, suck in my gut and hold ... and hold .... and hold.

I try not to watch the seconds tick down on my phone timer, but I can't help myself. Alone in my living room, I'm ready to collapse, to pause briefly, anything to end the pain. As I watch, the seconds seem to move in slow motion, a painfully stilted procession that will never, ever finish.

Want to make time pass more slowly? Just plank alone.

Threatened Tidewater

I've certainly been posting a lot about a three-day-trip, but the Virginia Tidewater is a magical place ... and a place now threatened by Dorian.

The National Hurricane Center predicts flash floods, high winds and a strong storm surge in southeastern Virginia and the southern Chesapeake Bay. That means that the bucolic landscape we toured last weekend could be drenched and battered today.

It's one reason to scotch dreams of home ownership in that area, which I'll admit were percolating in my brain as we spied one gorgeous inlet and quaint town after another.

Probably better these days to lust after cottages on safer, higher ground. But oh, there is something special about landscapes where land and water meet.

Virginia is For ...

It's been 50 years since the Old Dominion rolled out a new tourism campaign that went on to become one of the most successful ever. To celebrate this campaign, Virginia has placed more than 150 LOVE installations around the state. Seeing this one in Urbanna last weekend inspired me to do a little research.

"Virginia is for Lovers" has a contested history. Some say it was the original brainchild of a $100-a-week copywriter who came up with "Virginia is for history lovers" — until others in the Martin and Woltz agency out of Richmond (now the Martin Agency) decided to punch it up. Others say it was a more collaborative effort from the start.

Whatever the exact story, "Virginia Is For Lovers" is a classic example of less is more, because the removal of "history" gave the fusty state a whole new image. The campaign debuted with an ad in Bride's Magazine in 1969, the year after the summer of love. And the rest really is ... history.

Window Seat!

I could tell from photographs that I would like the "Rose Room," but until I walked in, I had no idea how much. It was the slanted roof, the pinks and greens, the hearts and flowers ...  and, of course, the dormer window seat.

The seat was deeper than most, for one thing, and wide enough that I could stretch out completely. It was soft, too, and plumped with pillows of several shapes and sizes. There was even a cute stuffed dinosaur for good measure.

Was it the feeling of enclosure it gave me, of being alone with my thoughts? Or, when the window was open, the expansiveness?

I've always wanted a window seat, would make it my writer's aerie if I had the chance.

But until then ... I'll just have to lust after this one.

End of the Road

It happened often while traveling in the Northern Neck. We'd follow the road to a cove or point only to find that the pavement literally dead-ended into the water. No parking lot. No gracious circle in which to turn around.  Just land ... then water.  Sometimes there would be a sign. The one above for the Sunnybank Ferry was a bit misleading. It wasn't closed for lunch but closed for the weekend. Still, what can you expect? It's free!

Other roads were more like this one at Windmill Point: a clear signal (as if you needed one) that if you want to go further, you'll be needing fins or flotation devices.

The road to the village of Weems ended at this overlook — well, not exactly an overlook, more like a backyard with a world-class view. You can see the big bridge to the Middle Peninsula from here.

When land meets water, roads and cars take a back seat to boats and bridges.

Urbannahhhh!

It's really Urbanna, but I couldn't resist adding a sigh of pleasure at the end. Where have all these sweet Virginia port towns been all my Virginia life?

Like Reedville, Irvington and Kilmarnock, Urbanna is a small place with a large footprint, large because its role in the beginning of American history gives it a certain heft. In all these small towns, homes and shops cluster around landings that became docks that became marinas that now lie sparkling in the sun. But before the sailboats and motorboats there were steamers and sailing ships, and the harbors and quays were where business was conducted, not pleasure.

To reach the Urbanna marina, for instance, you walk down Prettyman's Rolling Road, one of the oldest thoroughfares in America, a historical marker says. The "rolling" was named for how 1000-pound hogbacks full of tobacco were moved from custom house to ships and from there to the motherland more than 3,000 miles away.

I walked instead of rolled. But once down the shaded lane, it was easy to imagine the bustle of yore because of the modern busyness.  It was a glorious late-summer day, and sailors, kayakers and sightseers all gathered at the harbor.

 I watched one sailboat motor slowly down Urbanna Creek on its way to the Rappahannock and, ultimately, the bay. It would be back by nightfall. It wasn't traversing the Atlantic. But as the water gleamed and a breeze promised smooth sailing, it was easy to imagine otherwise.

(No wonder I like the town. I later read that it means "City of Anne," which I should have figured out from my ninth-grade Latin. Named not for me, of course, but for England's Queen Anne, most recently portrayed — and not prettily — in the movie The Favourite.") 

Chesapeake Steamboats

One of the reason I love to travel is that it opens up worlds you'd never know if you didn't leave home. It's not just seeing the sights and meeting the people. It's imbibing the history and culture.

Things like the Chesapeake steamboat culture, for instance, which flourished from the 19th century into the 20th.  Boats plied the rivers, creeks and inlets of this watery world, picking up tobacco, produce, seafood — and people — and taking them to Baltimore or Norfolk. Neighbors would gather at the wharf when the boats made their return trip to retrieve the tools, lumber or lace they'd ordered from the big city.

Steamboats served as buses, ambulances, bars (you could get a drink on one during Prohibition) — and stages. The musical "Showboat" was based on an Edna Ferber story she wrote after spending time on the James Adams Floating Theater, which mostly plied the Chesapeake.  These floating stages might be the only live entertainment a family could count on all year long. It was a big deal when the Floating Theater came to town.

Chesapeake steamboats — until this afternoon, I never knew they existed.

(This is the pilots cabin from the steamer Potomac, which is being restored in the Irvington Steamboat Museum.)