Endings and Beginnings

August 31 is a big day for endings. It's the end of the month, the end of the summer — and the end of the U.S. presence in Afghanistan. 

But it's also my first day of class. This evening I officially start the master's program I enrolled in months ago. 

In a way it's just a return to the program I began a decade ago when I took a Georgetown class called A Sense of Place: Values and Identity. But it's been 10 years. The program has changed, and I have, too.

Now I'm enrolled in one of four required foundation classes, Science and Society. To prepare for it I've read four chapters of a book on the history of science, taking notes on Bacon and Newton and Tycho Brahe. 

What will it be like to sit in a classroom again, to write papers, to be graded? I don't know ... but I'm about to find out.

(Lamplight on the Georgetown campus)

Harvest Time

A day's drive out, a day's drive back and three days in my hometown leave me in a state of addled contentment now that I'm back home. Throw in some nostalgia and amazement — from visiting with folks I haven't seen in 10 or 20 years (numbers we toss around as we used to the single digits) — and you have a lovely way to end the summer.

Or is it ending? It will be 90 again today,  the cicadas are crescendoing and the humidity is creeping up as I write this post on the deck. 

Given the opportunity, I'd probably keep traveling and keep sweltering another month or two, but September is almost here — September with its call to purpose and purchase. It's time to harvest what I've sown. 

(Joe Pye weed in a Jessamine County, Kentucky, field)

Walk Across Kentucky

This morning, I walked across Kentucky. Not the 370 miles from Ashland to Paducah, or the 180 miles from Covington to Williamsburg. But the two miles around the Kentucky Arboretum trail, which promises to compress all seven of the state's geographical regions into one stroll. 

I saw conifers representing the Appalachian Plateau, dogwood and coffeetree for the Knobs and tall grasses for the Pennyrile Region.

The Bluegrass Region, where Lexington is located,  is the most extensive, with bur and chinquapin oaks, several types of ash tree and outcroppings of shaggy limestone. 

Ambling through the Arboretum warmed me up, wore me out and educated me, too. After just one visit I can tell it will be one of my regular hometown routes. 

Ashland Park

There are places I visit so often in my imagination that I need to recharge the memories as you would a battery. I did some recharging today when I strolled through Lexington's Ashland Park neighborhood.

There was Woodland Park with its baseball diamonds and picnic tables, then my old place on Lafayette, the first of several former houses I would visit today (the others I drove by rather than walked past).

I ambled down South Hanover and Fincastle, letting my mind wander, fantasizing what it would be like to live in some of these places, the grand brick colonials, the charming round-doored tudors.  

Till I reached Ashland itself, the home of 19-century statesman Henry Clay, which stopped my reveries in their tracks. Ashland with its shaded walks and formal garden. Ashland with its historic pedigree and bountiful acreage. Even in fantasy, Ashland is out of my league. 

Corridor H

The climb started as soon as I exited Interstate 81. The flat land became scarcer, the tree tunnels more abundant. My little car felt the difference but handled it better than I'd hoped. 

The first stretch was road I've known and driven for years, Routes 33 and 55, which I wrote about years ago. But instead of chugging through Moorefield and Seneca Rocks, I cruised the top of the ridge along Highway 48, which I learned today is part of the Appalachian Development Highway System's as yet incomplete Corridor H. (Sounds more like a UFO site than a federal roads project.) 

Incomplete might be seen as a disadvantage, given the two-lane stretches in between the four, but not when it takes you to places like this, a pull-off viewing spot I almost missed since it had no sign or build-up. What I found were mountains beyond mountains, Queen Anne's lace and bumblebees, the quiet of a land out of time.

Going Home

In the waning days of summer, I sandwich in one more trip — this one back to Lexington for my high school reunion. It's been 10 years since I've seen most of these folks and three years since I've been in my hometown, a record I don't want to duplicate. 

I've written about trips to Kentucky since I started this blog, describing the drive there and the drive home — even my old high school building makes a cameo appearance. 

There's a reason for this, of course. It's because once you've grown up in a place like Lexington, it never leaves you. It's why, even though I've lived in this dear house for decades, raised my children here and treasure it beyond measure ... when I go to Lexington, I still say "going home." 

Back to the Bus

The buses are rolling again, yellow school buses not yet matching the color of autumn leaves but rolling just the same. In their rolling I see hope and normalcy.

Yes, the delta variant is abroad in the land. Yes, some of us, too many, are unvaccinated. But in this (now August) ritual (it was always in September when my children were in school), I see a bid for real life with all its prickliness and uncertainty. 

So even though the buses about ran me off the road on my morning walk, even though conditions are not ideal, I'm glad students are heading back to the bus. And from the gleeful look I see on parents' faces, I think they feel the same. 

The Shore

I'm home now, looking out the window of my office, staring at the trees that aren't palm, the greenery that's not tropical. 

Yesterday I took a walk along familiar streets, nodding at neighbors, noting the changes even a week can bring, the house that's up for sale, the fall clematis that's about to bloom. There was much rain while I was gone. Not enough to rescue the parched ferns but enough to green the grass that now clogs the mower. 

It's lovely, it's my home. But I miss the big skies above the palms, the limitless white sand, the confab of shore birds that hung out at a tidal flat near where I would go. I see in my mind's eye the small crescent beach only reachable at low tide and the alternating blues and greens of the Gulf water, lighter above the sand bar. 

What a magical place! How grateful I am to have gone there again!

Summer Storm

One of the things I like about going to the beach is, strangely enough, the rain. Not  the steady, all-day showers but the late-afternoon thunderstorm. 

In this subtropical climate you're pretty much guaranteed to have two or three (or more) summer days a week with skies darkening after 3 or 4 p.m., the uptick of stickiness in already-humid air, the low rumble of thunder and then, with a release that matches the heat of the day, a lovely, brief torrent.

There was a downpour like that yesterday, a fitting way to say (sigh!) ... goodbye to the beach. 

Off-Beach Walks

Maybe it's the Red Tide. Maybe it's the shade. Or maybe it's just my frame of mind. But for some reason I'm taking walks off the beach-beaten track this year. And I'm finding ...

Spanish moss ...

lush greenery,

and quiet canals.

All just steps away from the sand and surf. 

Shooting Rain

I'm an amateur photographer, doing the best I can with my iPhone 7 and enjoying every minute of it. I like framing the shot, trying to capture a digital image of what I see and want to preserve.

But sometimes I try to get technical, to shoot the difficult and ephemeral — to photograph the rain, for instance.

I wasn't sure I could do it, have tried before. But the rain in New York last month was falling so fast and furiously that I was able to snap this shot of it streaming through the skies, down the tenement fronts and into the rooftop pool of the newish hotel across the street.

This shot captures a moment and a downpour I won't soon forget. Water was streaming into the New York City subway system that evening, flooding major highways and making national news. 

What I didn't know then is that the rain would also delay the bass player from the band my cousin leads and in which my brother plays drums— the band we had come to New York to hear. And in fact, the drummer would end up missing all but three songs in the set. 

On the other hand, I did get an interesting rain photo out of it. 

The Canals

The west coast of Florida is not only sun-kissed and sugar-sanded but some of it (my part of it, at least) is laced with a series of narrow canals that make for crazy walking but lovely viewing.

I ran into these canals the other day on the way home from the beach. Thinking I could take a shortcut I found myself going in circles on what was, in effect, a peninsula, bounded on all sides by these watery avenues. 

No cut-throughs here. Instead, languorous streams tucked behind walls of palmetto, elephant ear, bougainvillea and birds of paradise. They move slowly; I'm trying to learn from them.

Red Tide

Yesterday, the beach was emptier than I've ever seen it. Figuring it was due to the high wind — the retreating edges of Tropical Storm Fred, by then pushing north to the panhandle — I took off walking as I usually do, tennis shoes slung over my shoulder, sinking my toes in the sand, warm water flowing up to my ankles as I skirted the waves. 

It was a perfect beach walking day — except it was anything but. 

I had heard about Red Tide, an algae bloom that kills fish and other wildlife, but mistakenly thought that if you couldn't see it, it wasn't there.

But then the cough I had noticed earlier became more insistent and my eyes watered so much I could scarcely keep them open. Could Red Tide hurt humans, too? 

The lifeguard station was farther up the beach, and by the time I reached it there was another coughing, sneezing, watery-eyed person asking the same question.

"It's really bad today," said the guard, who was wearing one of those bandana masks that's not allowed on airplanes but which seemed to be helping him cope with Karenia brevis, the organism that was causing the symptoms. 

When I looked closer, I noticed the little red flag flying from the lifeguard stand.  Red Tide: I have a healthy respect for it now.

(Photo: Courtesy ocean.si.edu)

The Difference

Here at the beach for a week, I'm soaking in the landscape, as I always do. It's not just the sun and the sand (which I've seen little of yet due to my arriving at the same time as Tropical Storm Fred) — but also the air (humid, with a salt breeze), the twisted banyan trees, the rubbery leaves of the palmetto frond I found floating in the pool yesterday.

Sights and textures like these free up the mind, set the imagination spinning. I wonder about lives lived entirely amongst such things and how they would differ from mine, tucked into the rolling roads and greenery of the Virginia Piedmont. 

I have no answers to this question, and surely a life is much more than the sum of what the eye sees, what the skin feels. But in the grand scheme of things, these make a difference, I'm sure. 

The Big 1

Today our grandson Isaiah celebrates his first birthday with a party, presents and a smash cake —  something we had back in the day but just called "cake."

He's a cheerful little fellow who's on the cusp of walking, who likes to point and say "dutz?" or "dat?" and who's totally at home with two huge German shepherds and a dog-sized cat. 

I love him to pieces, of course — how could I not? But I find it difficult to write about him and his younger cousin Bernadette. How many ways can you say adorable, huggable and snuggly? How can I retain even a smidgen of objectivity when writing about this pair?

For years I penned articles for parenting magazines. While I conducted research and interviewed experts, I also used my daughters' bedtime routines, imaginary companions or other age-appropriate behavior as anecdotes. The girls were first and foremost my precious children, of course, but sometimes ... they were material. 

This is not the case with the grandkids. They are pure pleasure, not only because we can send them home at the end of the day but also because there's not one published anecdote about them. Unless you count the occasional blog post, of course!

A New Milestone

I typically note the passing of blog milestones when there are round numbers ending in zeroes, but today I'll mix it up a little and note the passing of a milestone ending in 9s. 

This is the 3,499th post I've written since I began A Walker in the Suburbs in 2010,  the 87th since I left Winrock and the 499th since my last milestone post. 

Since then I've written about the pandemic's beginning and why despite its gift of time I'm still not getting anything done. 

I've written about trips I've taken, books I've read and walks that have inspired me. 

Mostly I've just tried to capture life in my little corner of the world, the joys and trials, the profound beauty of each day passing. 

Streaming

Today I walked to Gabrieli, yesterday to Vivaldi, and the day before, Joni Mitchell. All of this from the music streaming service that began as a free six-month trial but I decided was worth paying for. 

Though old news for many, the idea that I can call up most any piece of music struck me like a thunderclap. It was out there waiting but I had to be ready for it, ready to see music as something to rent and not to own.

Which is not to say I have entirely given up that concept. I still have stacks of CDs and LPs, still have my trusty iPod, tiny and ancient, with playlists that have embedded themselves in my brain. 

But now I also have my phone, gateway to the streaming app — and a musical freedom I am only beginning to plumb. 

Narrow Shoulders

While I miss Garrett County's bucolic scenery on my suburban walks, I don't miss the proximity to hair-raising traffic. Those mountain byways had lovely views but narrow shoulders, and trucks careened down them with the confidence born of familiarity — a familiarity I lacked, of course. 

So I treated the roads with caution — or maybe you could say cautious optimism. I alternated walking against the traffic with staying on the same side of it when there was a blind curve or a wider berm. 

And in this way I made my way down Bray School Road to its intersection with Oakland Sang Run Road, or Lakeshore halfway to 219, or Foster to the graveled Betts Lane and back. 

Each time I stood for a minute before turning around, taking in the human-scale hills, the sweet-scented meadow grass, the low hum of a radio coming from a house that's for sale. I thought about what it would be like to live in that house, amidst such loveliness. Then I turned around and trotted back.

Two Photos

I took a long walk this morning after an early airport run. It felt good to hit the pavement after sending off the Seattle contingent. They live so far away, and I miss them. But they are well on their way now, and the rest of us are back in our homes and routines, too. The week we spent together was full of hikes and paddles and loud, raucous family dinners, and I'm enormously grateful for it.

If today I'm a little sad knowing it's over, that's part of it, too, like the rise and fall of breath and tides. I tell myself that it could easily not have worked out at all. There were the schedules of eight adults to juggle, to say nothing of baby nap times, feedings and gear. 

I snapped the top photo after everyone else had left the house, amazed that it could end up looking like it had in the website pictures once we'd packed up and moved out. But I'd rather remember it like this:

On the Lake

There's at the lake and there's on the lake. And what a difference between the two. Being at the lake can also mean being in the woods or on a walk or hanging with the family in an A-frame across the road. 

Being on the lake is being immersed in water and wake, paddle and foam.  It's kayaking up and down Red Run Cove, saying hello to folks in other boats or on the shore, listening to snippets of conversation about the invasive grasses that are mucking up motor boat propellers. 

Once in the middle of the lake, I put my oar across my knees and feel the sun on my face. I think about the trip, which ends today. There was a lot of packing and organizing to get us here. There'll be a lot of packing and organizing to get us home. It was worth every minute of it.

The Campsite

In 1918 and again in 1921, Henry Ford, Thomas Edison and Harvey Firestone camped near this waterfall in what is now Swallow Falls State Park in Oakland, Maryland. They called themselves the Vagabonds and toured the Eastern United States, popularizing automobile travel. 

Isn't it ironic that people now journey to places like Swallow Falls for respite from the automobile? They travel great distances to pitch their tents in woods and fields, or to rent houses, as we have, and immerse themselves in an alternative landscape. 

Though the Vagabonds traveled with their own naturalist (John Burroughs) and an entourage of chefs and butlers, they must have felt as I did yesterday glimpsing the simple beauty of water falling over rock. 

It makes you want to stop and ponder, to set up camp and stay a while. 

Still Life with Hay Bales

Last evening in the golden hour of slanted light, I walked up the road a quarter mile to a field I've been seeing on our drives.  My goal: to capture "on film" a field of daisies. 

But the daisies were a little too far away and the traffic was whipping around me as I stood on the scant shoulder, so I made quick work of the shot. On the way back, though, I raised my phone to photograph another beautiful field, green grass studded with hay bales lit by the lowering sun. 

I'd actually crunched and marched my way across this field when I thought I could reach the daises on foot, before I discovered the rusty wire fence and the treed border. I'd taken some photos of the hay bales from that angle and found them lacking.

But up above, on the berm, I could capture the sunlight and the shadows— beauty on a larger scale. Proof, once again, of the power of perspective. 

County Fair

It's just serendipity that we're here the same week as the Garrett County Agricultural Fair. So yesterday we ventured out to see the pigs and cows and sheep and goats (some of us city folks confusing those latter two).  There were rabbits, too, long-eared laps and Netherland dwarfs. Plus all kinds of hens and roosters, one of which excited the babies with his loud cocka-doodle-doo.

The carnival rides looked as scary as ever — a ferris wheel that was going around at quite a clip and other contraptions that shake you and turn you upside down.  Along the midway, barkers sang their timeless song: everyone's a winner here. 

And then, there was the food: cotton candy, which brought back memories of when I used to make it at the Bluegrass Fair as a teenager, gathering the sugar floss with a paper cone, twirling it around the sides of the machine and handing it to a happy customer. What we didn't have back then were fried pickles, fried cheese and fried candy bars.  So of course, that's the photo I snapped. 

Old-Growth Forest

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlock

Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline

Today we explored the oldest stand of old-growth forest in Maryland, a place of deep shade and filtered light. The destination was Swallow Falls but the journey was also an attraction: a hike through pines and hemlocks more than 300 years old.

I imagined what these trees have seen, the ancient twinning of their root systems. Being in their company made me want to talk softly, to concentrate only on breathing the air they purify, on striding beneath their canopy.

At the Lake

A laptop that's been off for more than two full days. Dinner for eight every night. A new place with new routines. Must be on vacation.

Here at the lake it's 20 degrees cooler than home — and with two babies and two dogs, quite a bit more lively.

Two of us are working, two just left for a walk, two of us are napping (the under-one crowd) and the rest are figuring out what we'll do next. 

It's August ... and the world is now this cottage near a lake.