Georgetown Gazetteer

Tomorrow, my humanities class moves from online to in-person, so I'll drive to Georgetown again, as I was doing last fall.  I'm looking forward to meeting classmates in person, though of course there will be the nervousness of any new venture. 

I took a trial run of sorts on Friday when I visited campus for a required Covid test. That was accomplished in minutes, which left plenty of time for a stroll around campus and through the neighborhood.

Flurries were flying as I walked the brick sidewalks and dreamed myself into the Federal townhouses. There was the buff pink with dark green shutters, a stately corner manse, a teal-shuttered beauty with the view of Georgetown Visitation. 

It's a tough choice ... but I'll take one of those mansions on Prospect, one with a river view, please. 

Sunrise, Sunset

Time for another virtual vacation, this one to the banks of the Mekong River in Kampong Cham, Cambodia.

River of commerce and transportation, of fertility and growth. 

For me, though, it was a river of light — of sunrise and moon glow. 

Staying Alive

The thermometer said 12 this morning, but I already knew it was frigid from the near non-stop furnace activity I'd heard since waking. 

The birds have no such heat source. They must keep moving, keep eating, or perish. So I watch cardinals and jays and sparrows and grackles flit out and back, up and down. They cluster around the feeder, drain it in hours. In between, they fluff their feathers and bury themselves deep in the azalea bush.

Downy woodpeckers nibble at the suet block. Sometimes a pileated woodpecker joins them. The squirrels want in on the action, too. Why they don't partake of the large pile of seed on the ground below the feeder I'll never know. I think they just like to mess with us.

The Prism

The prism is back, rescued from a dusty retreat on top of my dressing table, where it sat cupped and safe in an ornate candlestick since I moved it home at the start of the pandemic. 

That's no place for a prism to be, I told myself, so I brought it into this room I'm making my own and hung it from the shade roller so it dances in the window. 

I'd almost forgotten about it when I walked into the room this morning, tea mug in hand. But there they were again, those welcome rainbows brightening my wall. 

Monochromatic

It was just above freezing yesterday when I set off through the woods down a path that leads to our sister neighborhood on Westwood Hills Drive. I had walked there a couple weeks ago and admired the forest views, the courts and cul-de-sacs, the feeling of being on the other side of the looking glass. But I'd driven to that walk. This one was solely by shank's mare. 

Finding new ways to escape the neighborhood on foot is becoming a minor obsession. I enjoy the great suburban irony — driving to walk — but still like to subvert it whenever possible.

Yesterday's walk was a pleasing mix of sedate street and woodland trail. The ground was thawing in the latter and mud was a factor (my shoes were banished to the garage after the stroll). But I plunged on, making a large loop through the still, spare, monochromatic landscape. 

Symbiosis

This weekend, a hint of spring: Not from the temperature, which was frigid, or the daylight hours, which were paltry — but from the robins, who swarmed in to feast on the holly berry. I heard them before I saw them — the beats of their wings and the tenor of their calls, which bring to mind an April morning.

In January robins are not harbingers of spring. They winter here and flock together to forage and roost. But their twittering sounds like spring, so I pretended. 

Watching them, taking closeups of them amid the shiny green leaves, made me think about symbiosis. The robins were just doing what they need to stay alive. But their presence was driving me out into the cold sunshine, where, at least that moment, I needed to be.

Frozen Walk

It was a frozen world I walked through yesterday. Bundled up in my warmest coat, hooded and thick-socked, I made my way along the Franklin Farm trails, which were understandably empty. You know it's cold when even the dog-walkers stay inside. 

The paths were mostly clear, but any pooled water was frozen solid. I stopped and examined the ice, snapped photos, wondered why some ice is milky white and other is clear, thought perhaps I should have learned that in high school but did not. Mostly, I moved quickly. A winter walk is bracing, as long as it's short. 

The Very Thirsty Piano*

My new piano is a joy. Most every day I sit on its comfy bench and touch its lustrous keys and think to myself ... what did I do to deserve this instrument? Not only have I continued to play old pieces, but I'm even attempting to learn new ones — a sure sign of devotion.

But the piano has developed one interesting habit. It's thirsty — very, very thirsty. It has a humidifier, you see, with a light that comes on when the water drops below a certain level. When that happens, you fill it through a tube to avoid removing the front of the instrument. Doing this keeps the piano in tune, and is good for it in general. 

When the tuner showed me how this works, I imagined we'd be filling it up once or twice a winter. But it's been a cold January, and the piano lights up about once a week. So now I water the ferns, I water the spider plants ... and I water the piano. 

(*Apologies to the late Eric Carle for riffing on his title)

Winnowing

I'm in a transitional generation, one that has both real and virtual clean-up duties. Not only do I need to tidy up my computer desktop, to create file folders and organize documents and photos within them, I must also deal with the hundreds of real file folders in cabinets in my basement. And those are much heavier. 

They are also filled with gems: Long-ago memos, tattered and worn. Assignment letters from editors who were my mentors and also my friends. Reams of research. Pink "While You Were Away" phone message slips. Studies gathered the old-fashioned way, by going into a brick-and-mortar library, finding the journal and photocopying the pages. 

And then there are the interview notes, all in my near-impossible-to-read scribble. I've tossed pounds and pounds of them, saving only the ones where I've spoken with dear friends or eminent experts. 

As I winnow my way through each folder, I remember how hard I worked to assemble that information, conduct those interviews, take and process those notes. Which baby was I holding at the time? Which child was hanging on my leg?  A part of me thinks I should leave these folders alone; they are too precious to process. But another part of me is greedy for space, for empty file drawers. And these days, that part is winning out.

Viva Italia!

Like many people these days I find myself relying on streaming entertainment more heavily than I would like. This has become a winter-time occupation, slowly supplanting my race to watch Oscar-bound films in theaters since so many of them are available online.

As we enter our third year of pandemic-enforced staying-put, I'm gravitating toward films that feature faraway climes. Films like "Under the Tuscan Sun." I read this book years ago, even own a copy of it. I happened upon the movie a couple days ago, looking for something to watch while exercising in the basement. 

What a vision! I don't mean the sexy Italian guys ... I mean the gorgeous Tuscan countryside. There is the walled city of Cortona, the Amalfi Coast marvel of Positano. There are the tall, skinny Italian Cyprus trees, the olive groves, fountains and love of life that flourish in this sunny land.

Oh, I know there are gray days in Italy, too. It's not the garden of eden. But right now it looks like it to me. 

Photos: courtesy Wikipedia, alas I have no recent Italy photos of my own

Wind-Whipped Walk

On Friday, ahead of what I'd heard would be a snow-stormy weekend, I took a brisk walk around Lake Audubon. Well, not exactly around, but as far as I could go. 

The wind had already picked up, and it was moving across the lake, creating patches of sunlight on the water that glimmered and moved with the wind.

I was wearing my warm black parka with the faux-fur-lined hood, which kept me warm but hampered movement, so I wasn't skittering ahead as quickly as I usually do. But I was comfortable and meditative and feeling energized by the wind in my face. 

These are the moments that gladden the lives of walkers everywhere — or at least this one. 

Wild Kingdom

The hawk is back, and so is the fox. I've seen both within the last few days, the fox as recently as this morning, trotting along the back fence line, looking for breakfast, I suppose.

This is of some concern to us now, since "breakfast" is right here in the house. I'm speaking of Motet, our canine visitor for the winter, an Arizona dog come to stay during the coldest, snowiest season we've had in years. 

Either one of the wild critters wouldn't mind munching on Motet, so she will be restricted to supervised play for the time being.

The wild kingdom ... who knew it was as close as the backyard? 

(This relatively close-up view made possible by my new camera!)

Picketing

When you've seen a movie as often as I've seen "It's a Wonderful Life," the lines you may not have noticed on first or second viewings pop out at you later.

One of the exchanges I noticed this past December, during my umpteenth watching of this holiday classic, happens when Mary sees George Bailey walking back and forth in front of her house, presumably getting up the nerve to knock on her door. "Are you picketing?" she asks, in a lovingly jocular way that would come to characterize their relationship.

I think of that line often as I walk Copper, an old doggie whose idea of a long stroll is making it one driveway down and back. First we turn right out of the driveway. After a brief mosey on that side of the yard and a careful sniffing of the planter at the foot of the mailbox, we turn the other way and stroll over to the forsythia and its band of encircling liriope, where there are more sniffs to be had, long lovely inhalations, as if Copper was about to swill a fine wine.

Sometimes we repeat this backing and forthing several times before we go inside. Does it feel like picketing? Absolutely! All we need is a sign: "More meat, less kibble!"

By Armchair to Benin

Good friends flew out last night for a month in South Africa. It isn't solely a pleasure trip — though there will be plenty of pleasure associated with it. They've gone to meet and hold their twin granddaughters, born late last year. 

Thinking of them winging their way to another continent has revved up the armchair traveler in me. Seven years ago, I was in Africa, too, though a completely different part of it, west rather than north, near the equator rather than the Tropic of Capricorn. 

I was zipping around on the back of a zemidjan, learning about Voodoo, spotting baboons, hippos and elephants from the top of a minivan,  I was touring Benin from south to north, meeting my son-in-law-to-be and so many other good people, all of whom who welcomed me like I was their own. 

I was living fully in the way that travel allows, in the way I've been privileged to these last many years, in a way I hope to again. 

Brave Buds

When life is limited, as it continues to be these days, I look for small changes. Walking routes are one of them. So I left the neighborhood, turned right instead of heading straight, and trudged along a busy four-lane road.

This took me past a nursery with plants I always admire, plants that look as pretty in winter as they do in summer, one with berries and one a yellowed evergreen.

How lovely the winter garden can be: how various the textures, how lively the stems. It's as if we see the plants for what they truly are, the skeletons and the souls of them. 

In January, spent grasses nod their heads, brave buds raise their chins. All are waiting, waiting. If you listen carefully, you can hear them exhale.

Farewell to Eternity

The reasons we read a particular book are as various as the books themselves, but there are some general trends: a friend recommends it, the book group schedules it, we've read a good review of it and — my new excuse — the professor puts it on the syllabus. 

The reasons we give up on books are also legion: it doesn't live up to the recommendation, it's wicked long, the topic is arcane, the reviewers were wrong. Sometimes a book simply doesn't fit into the time I have to read it, though truth to tell that seldom happens. In fact, I don't give up on a book lightly. 

But when I find myself on page 80 of an 800-page novel, when I recall the rather flimsy reasons for picking it up — a friend told me decades ago that she enjoyed it and memoirist Willie Morris speaks fondly of the author, James Jones — and when I realize that I'm already on the line for reading I might not enjoy for the class that's starting next week ... well, then I give myself permission to put it aside. And so, farewell to From Here to Eternity. 

Empty Corner

The living room is larger today. Wing chairs are back in their usual places, flanking the grandfather clock. It's easier to reach books on the far shelves, and plants can stretch and breathe. 

What's missing is the Christmas tree, fragrant and bedazzled. The tree that blocked the bookshelves and required major furniture rearranging. The tree that bore the weight of glass globes, tin stars and ceramic angels with grace and dignity. 

This morning I moved toward the far corner of the living room to turn on the tree lights, as I have been every day for more than three weeks. I was ready once again to be bathed only in its reds, greens and blues. 

Then I remembered, the corner is empty, the tree is gone. This morning, I sit in its shadow.

Melded

Yesterday I chopped onions and celery and carrots. I peeled potatoes and sliced them into quarters, then eighths. I unearthed a bay leaf from the spice cabinet and found some parsley from the fridge.

The potatoes were snowy white, and the large carrots made ducat-like rounds, fell from the knife with a crack and a burst of sweetness. The puny celery (is there a shortage this year?) needed little skinning. The onions were less pungent than some, so my eyes didn't water.

The kitchen filled with the aromas of simmering beef and marrow bones, as I added canned tomatoes and the sliced vegetables to the broth. The mixture simmered, and with each stir, the vegetables softened, adding their juices to the broth. The individual ingredients began to give way, to meld, to become one.

It took most of the afternoon, but by dinner time there was a passable vegetable soup to sip. It was delicious, but it will be much better tomorrow. And even better the next day.

Being Inside

It is full-on winter now — temperature in the teens when I woke up. How right it feels, when the furnace hums and the clocks tick and the birds chirp, how right it feels for it to be cold outside. The snow falls and stays. The bare trees stand sentinel.

December was lovely but strange, warmer than some Octobers. Lawn care chores piled up around me. Bulb-planting blistered my palms. 

Now, being inside is not only expected, it is necessary. There is a kind of relief in that.

January 6th

It was only after I had posted yesterday that I remembered the date: January 6, the Epiphany, Little Christmas, a day set aside (by me, at least) to celebrate insight, discovery, the sudden revelation.

But since last year, January 6th has taken on a different meaning, one of anger and fear and ignominy. The opposite of light and wonder. 

You could say that last year's January 6th was a revelation. It revealed a dark truth about this nation. But I'd rather keep the day free of politics, let it stay in my mind the capstone of the season, a day to reflect with hope on the year just dawning. 

All the Light

Now that winter is settling in, it's decided to give us another dollop of snow to freshen up the batch we received on Monday. Which means I've been scanning the clouds.

Yesterday we had a swirled and mottled firmament, a stingy winter sky. Though it was a montage of clearing and melting, the sky kept its distance. 

At about 3 in the afternoon, between errands, I looked up and thought: This is all the light we're going to see. It's a sober realization but also a practical one. In weather, as in life, it's good to know what you have. 

Flash Gratitude

I have in my temporary possession a book called The Best of Brevity. It's a compilation of short essays from the journal Brevity, which features flash nonfiction. 

The genre of flash nonfiction is relatively new to me, although I write it everyday. It is the true-to-life equivalent of flash fiction. part of a trend — probably long since peaked if I'm catching onto it — toward the brief, the ephemeral, the transitory. 

Let me add to this canon with what I've come to think of as flash gratitude. 

Flash gratitude is the sudden, piercing awareness of life's blessings. Stubbing one's toe and thinking ... at least I have a toe to stub. Or hearing the gentle purr of forced-air heat and giving thanks for the warm home I sit in as a result. 

I had a moment of flash gratitude yesterday when I heard about fellow Virginians trapped for 18 to 20 hours on an impassable I-95. They were cold, hungry, frightened and, most likely, angry. They were bearing the brunt of the snow storm in a real and all-too-personal way. 

Let this be a gratitude trigger, I told myself. Whenever life looks bleak and purposeless, I will conjure up those poor souls trapped in their Kias or Toyotas or Hondas or Fords, those poor shivering drivers and passengers, and my heart will nearly burst with joy that I am anywhere else but on a snow-packed, jack-knifed-tractor-filled I-95. 

(This snow has its beauteous moments, too.)

These Boots

I began yesterday's walk by pulling on a pair of ancient snow boots. These black beauties have fake fur at the top and a stubborn zipper. But once on, they can take me places.

Down the snow-packed driveway, onto the slushy, icy street and finally to a more thoroughly plowed thoroughfare. 

In the woods, trees were groaning and cracking. The snow was heavy, a burden for brittle branches, some of which gave way within earshot. 

But on the street, it was a different story. You could see the trees from a safe distance, could view the whitened trunks, the felted ferns. The boots gave me traction and confidence. Without them, I would have missed the world transformed.

Snow Day

We had to wait a week or so, but we finally got our white Christmas. 

In a weather reversal that matches anything in recent memory, we went from the balmy 60s yesterday to snow, sleet and cold today, with several inches of white stuff on the ground and more on the way.

I always think of snow as this blog's true home. A Walker in the Suburbs began in a snow storm and flourished in one. It might not have come into existence at all were it nor for the windfall of time that flowed from Snowmaggedon.

Now snow is endangered, snow days, too. A work-at-home world does not grind to a halt just because we can't scrape off the cars and drive to the office. A major disadvantage of telecommuting, in my opinion. 

Who doesn't need some days when the world goes away? Snow will give us those, if we let it. 

Here's to the 2s

We are launched now into a universe of 2s. The year 2022. Grandchildren who will be turning two this year. And something else that will, I'm sure, soon come to mind. 

Time to ponder the beauty of the number, its rounded hump, the way the zero looks tucked between the 2s. There is an elegance there, a hopefulness, too. 

Long ago there was an advertisement for a car rental company, Avis, I believe, which said, in effect, "We're number two. We try harder."

Let's hope this year's 2s try harder, too. 

(Photo: Creative Commons)