My Town?

Yesterday, I took an impromptu walk down the Mount Vernon Trail, starting at Gravelly Point. Planes were swooping in low to land, so low that the wind from their passing ruffled the leaves of trees in their path. An enthusiastic group of plane-spotters lined up at the end of the park, practically on the runway, to wave and cheer as the 737s soared above them.

The magic of the walk was in the mingling of the low-tech — the quiet lap of river water against the shore — with the high — the roar of jet engines making their final approach to National.

And then there was the beauty of the path and the District viewed at three miles per hour. The red maples still flaming, a graceful weeping willow, geese sluicing into river water before landing in a puddle under the I-395 overpass.

I hated to leave the scene: the Washington Monument rising ethereal on the other bank, the graceful arch of the Memorial Bridge, and, in the distance, the spires of Georgetown's Healy Hall. It's my town, if I want — and walk — it to be.

Suspect

Most of my walks are in the suburbs these days, which makes sense given the title of this blog, but when I commuted downtown, a fair number of my forays were in the city. This allowed for more constant comparisons between the urban and suburban stroll.

One of the major differences is that in the city we walk to get somewhere, but in the suburbs we walk to walk — because there are few errands we can run on shank's mare. For that reason, the long-distance suburban walker, the one who dares hoof it along a major road, can be suspect. This is true for people of all races. 

In his book The Lost Art of Walking, Geoff Nicholson tells the story of a well-dressed man stopped by a sheriff's patrol car on the one-mile walk to his office in Los Angeles County.  It was on "a completely empty stretch of suburban sidewalk, at midday," the man explained, and he was dressed in a coat and tie when he was ordered to identify himself and explain where he was going. "As a pedestrian," the man said, "I was suspect."

According to his definition (minus the coat and tie), I'm suspect, too.  

Another Way

Walking and talking — such an ancient practice. Almost as ancient as walking, bipedalism, itself, and oh so delightful. 

Over the weekend, with family visiting, I've been reminded of this all over again, how naturally one falls into the rhythm of common footfall and how naturally this footfall lends itself to the exchange of words, thoughts, confidences. 

Although I'm usually a solo walker, and happily so, I don't mind being reminded there's another way.

Waiting

A friend of mine wrote a one-act play about Advent called "Wait — It's a Musical." I always liked the title, the play on the word "wait." I'm thinking of that play and that title today, on the first Sunday of the liturgical year. 

Every year the readings and sermons remind us that this is the season of watchful waiting, of calm preparation. Every year, this message must compete with tinsel and glitter and Mariah Carey belting out "All I Want for Christmas is You." 

So I try, and somewhat succeed ... for a week or two. But inevitably I'm pulled into the Christmas orbit. The shopping, the baking, the watching of holiday movies, one of which features, yes, "All I Want for Christmas is You."

On an overcast November morning, it's easy to feel the ancient longing, to hear the plainsong chant. But in a week or two, all bets will be off. 

Hardly Nothing

When a day is filled with as much cooking as yesterday was, the next day must be filled with, uh, pretty much nothing.

So how does one go about nothing, anyway? I've never been good at it. 

Walking, reading, more eating — hardly nothing, but sometimes they can feel like it when they're going well. 

Quicksilver

It's a day to feel grateful ... and to ponder gratitude. One thing I've noticed is how mercurial it can be, how it can lie leaden in the heart until something happens — a friend calls, a baby laughs, the dough rises — and suddenly it flies up, a bird with fluttering wings. 

You try to catch it as it soars, but soon it's gone again. Was it really there, or were you just imagining it? 

I choose to believe the former.  Its sightings may be sporadic, but its presence is real. 

Cranberries

This morning I'm considering the cranberry, the perfect color of it, its tartness and completeness ... and the way it slides beneath the knife when you try to slice and dice it. 

I'm considering the many berries I have to slice and dice ... and potential ways around that. Food processor to the rescue!

It's not even Thanksgiving and I'm already looking for ways to avoid cooking. This doesn't bode well!

Verticality

Walking through the woods lately has brought verticality to mind. Tree trunks stand unadorned. Without leaves to distract us, their upright posture is all the more stunning.

I feel dwarfed by the size and grandeur of these trees, by their bare beauty.

In winter, our eyes and minds are drawn to the essential nature of things. 

Turkey Time

The other night I had a funny anxiety dream. I was strolling through a store on Thanksgiving afternoon, casually browsing, picking up treats for the holiday meal, when I suddenly realized that I had not put the turkey in the oven. Not only that, but I had failed to bake the pumpkin pies the night before. 

As I frantically tried to figure out how to feed 20 people with no turkey or pie ... I woke up. 

Ah yes, I thought groggily, a Thanksgiving anxiety dream.  When I came to full consciousness the next morning, I remembered my middle-of-the-night panic with a smile — but a jolt, too.

Yes, I was given a reprieve. But the big day is coming up. I hope I'm prepared!

(As close as I can come to a turkey photo: a turkey teapot photo!) 

The Annuals

They lasted almost till Thanksgiving, but last night finished them off. I'm talking about the summer flowers, the impatiens I transplanted after a deer took them down and the begonias that took their place. 

I snapped a photo of these plants the other night, after I realized how cold it would be. I may have snapped a shot of them earlier, but I was taking no chances. I wanted to preserve their bounty in some way. 

Surely the begonias by the front door were princes of plants, their lift and height, their regal presence. And another begonia on the deck, the one pictured above, already wilting a bit, was resplendent in its youth, a gift from a green-thumbed friend, which  apparently imbibed some of her plant goodness at the start.

Annuals are the victims of seasonal change. They lack the immortality of the perennial. For that reason, they draw our attention to the fleetingness of life. And for that reason, among others, I honor them. 

Michael Gerson: 1964 — 2022

The world lost a great columnist and thinker yesterday when Michael Gerson died of cancer. Though I'm not an evangelical Christian Republican, I found much to admire in Gerson's columns, especially the ones about faith.  I wasn't the only one. The tributes are flowing in. 

In 2019 he spoke at Washington National Cathedral about his battle with depression, which had hospitalized him only weeks before. Though he credited medication for helping him turn the corner, he also spoke of "other forms of comfort," including "the wild hope of a living God." 

Those who believe, he said, know that life is not a farce but a pilgrimage, that hope can "grow within us, like a seed," and "transcendence sparks and crackles around us ... if we open ourselves to seeing it."

Gerson didn't just write about heavy stuff, though. Last summer he described his new Havanese, Jack, as a "living, yipping, randomly peeing antidepressant" and declared "I'll never live without a dog again." He never did — but now Jack, his family, friends and readers will have to live without Gerson.

I've written very few fan letters in my life, but last May I wrote one to Michael Gerson. He'd written a column that acknowledged a return of the cancer he knew would end his life, and I wanted to let him know that one reader, this reader, had taken much comfort from his words. He was kind enough to write me back. But it's in his published words that I will remember him best, like this one from 2017:

If the resurrection is real, death’s hold is broken. ...  It is possible to live lightly, even in the face of death — not by becoming hard and strong, but through a confident perseverance. Because cynicism is the failure of patience. Because Good Friday does not have the final word.

Many Worlds

Yesterday there was a drive and some errands that reminded me how many worlds exist inside this one world we call home. 

There was a body shop with country music blaring and an American flag flying and a mechanic named JJ who pronounced the bill — "that will be nine thousand dollars" — before grinning and saying he was just kidding. 

There was a hole-in-the-wall eatery with goat meat and fou-fou and a woman wearing a colorful West African print in bright yellow. 

And in between these places were parkways of green, the home of our first president, and the Potomac River flashing bright outside the car window, its bridges arching gracefully over the waves.

It's a big world out there. How good it is to be reminded of it. 

Burying the Lead

Last night I read Erling Kagge's Walking: One Step at a Time, and I did so blind, you might say, unaware of the Norwegian explorer's biography and significance. 

It was the journalist in me that wanted to shout "you buried the lead" when I came across — on page 155 of a 166-page book — the acknowledgment that "I had a bit of luck in that no one else had yet managed to walk alone to the South Pole." Uh, what?! 

Still, it was an interesting exercise to make it almost to the end of this slim volume before learning why, in essence, this slim volume was written. Which is not to say that Kagge doesn't have a lot to share even as an "ordinary" walker. But being the first human to reach the North Pole, South Pole and the summit of Mount Everest — the "Three Poles Challenge" — on foot does give him a certain authority. 

However, I do believe that the revelations he experiences are available to those of us who only trudge around the block. "And this is precisely the secret held by all those who go by foot," he says. "Life is prolonged when you walk. Walking expands time rather than collapses it." 

(A diagram of the South Geographic Pole, South Magnetic Pole, South Geomagnetic Pole, and the South Pole of Inaccessibility. Courtesy Wikipedia.) 

Ink Stains: Before and After

One hazard of being a writer is the frequent discovery of ink stains on my clothes. This happened the other day after a trip to the grocery store, where in the course of crossing items off my list (which has nothing to do with being a writer and everything to do with being a compulsive list-maker) I somehow smudged black ink on a white sweatshirt.

We'll leave aside for the moment why in the world I bought a white sweatshirt and move along to the stain remedy. 

Long ago, I acquired a chart which listed such items as ammonia, baking soda, lemon juice and glycerine in an arsenal of stain busters. Glycerine is key here, being one of the only substances I've found that can remove ball point ink from fabric. I worked with glycerine, and a mixture of glycerine, dish detergent and ammonia, off and on for an hour: applying, rubbing, rinsing, reapplying. But in time, and with effort, the ink stains went away. 

I'm wearing the white sweatshirt again. Is it my imagination or does it look even creamier and more pristine than it did before I defaced it? I think it does. 

(Imagine the stain potential here.)

A Pedestrian at Heart

I pulled up at the light, heart pounding. I'd missed the turn-off for Rock Creek Parkway and now was in some sort of endless correction loop, counting the one-two-three-four-five-six — sixth! — exit of the roundabout, which would take me, after more twists and turns, to the parkway entrance.

As I waited at the light, I stared longingly at the pedestrians. They were mostly young (this was a university area), bopping along with backpacks tossed carelessly across their shoulders, chatting as they crossed at the light. How I longed to be one of them! 

Instead, I waited for the light to turn green, then put the car in first and made my way (eventually, after a hair-raising U-turn) onto the parkway. Yes, I reached my destination ... but at a price.

I'll always be a pedestrian at heart. 

(Hoofing it through an urban center.)

Hopeful Signs

For years I rose early and left the house, then drove 20 minutes to the Metro station, where I boarded the train that took me to an office in the city.

A couple days ago, I made my first Metro trip of the year... of the year! And this, of course, in the eleventh of twelve months. What to say, other than once again how much the pandemic has upended our lives.

This week I rode in during evening rush hour but the train was only half full, and I felt myself strangely longing for the bustle of evening at the Vienna station. 

There were hopeful signs, though, new stations that will open next week as part of the Silver Line, and the crazy fact that even though my return train was emptier than the one heading into town ... I ran into two people I knew. 

A Glow from Within

The most vivid tree in our yard is one we never planted. It's a volunteer, little more than a weed for years and now coming fully into its own. 

Especially at this time of year, when it seems to glow from within.

The poplars and oaks are bare now, even the Kwanzan cherry has dropped its golden leaves. 

But the Japanese maple flames on...

Smart Books?

I was about halfway through Paul Auster's Notes from the Interior when I realized ... I'd read it before. Or at least parts of it. 

Maybe libraries should issue subtle notifications when patrons check out books multiple times. Something like, "Last borrowed November 2016." Nothing as overt as, "Are you completely unaware of the fact that you've already checked this book out, plus renewed it, so there's a good chance you've read it before?!"

I suppose this falls into the category of the"smart" features I often decry. How many times have I joked that I don't want my TV or refrigerator to be smarter than I am? So why should my library be?

Which means ... I'm back to relying on good, old-fashioned, oh-so-fallible human memory.

Iced Tea!

As the mercury begin to settle back into more seasonal temperatures, I'll celebrate the record-breaking warmth of the last  few days with a photo of my favorite beverage, iced tea.

Here it is in a hero shot from yesterday, when it slaked the thirst brought on by 80-degree weather. 

So as my laundry crisped outside and I attempted to write a paper instead of swinging in the hammock (which is what I wanted to do), my beverage of choice sweated and cooled and looked as fetching as a glass of iced tea can look. 

You'll have to excuse the green shoots that seem to cascade from the side of the side of the glass. That's not extra mint, but the fronds of a spider plant peeping out on either side. 

Sláinte! 

Mornings at 7

These are good days for morning people. 

No more darkness at 7 a.m., no more rolling over and drifting back to sleep, pretending it's "still nighttime" even though a quick glance at the clock reveals that it most certainly is not.

The time change has given us back our precious early hours and we must decide what to do with them: a walk, a blog post, a head start on homework? All of these and more?

One thing is clear, though, and that's the urgency to use these hours now, while we have them, because in a month or so, it will once again be dark at 7 a.m.

(Morning light illuminates a tributary of Little Difficult Run.)

Many Nations

Like many Americans these days I spend a fair amount of time wondering how we've become so polarized. It's not just because we're in an election season. It's hard to read a newspaper, watch television or even carry on a conversation without noticing the rifts, which seem to grow deeper by the day.

Now that I'm reading American Nations by Colin Woodard, I have a better idea why this is happening. Although written before the most recent shenanigans (it was published in 2011), the book provides a history of, to use Woodard's subtitle, "the eleven rival regional cultures of North America." 

I'm learning about the Tidewater, where I live now, and Appalachia, where I grew up — although Woodward admits that the Bluegrass region of Kentucky (my original stomping grounds) might be considered a Tidewater enclave within Greater Appalachia.  And I'm gaining a better understanding of how the tolerant, anything-goes attitude I love about New York City harkens back to the founding of New Amsterdam and its mercantile roots.

We're less of a melting pot than a large, lumpy stew. And Woodard is helping me understand why.

In Praise of Following

Yesterday's walk was a blur of twists and turns. I had no idea where I was going, where I'd been. 

I could afford to be lackadaisical because I was walking with a friend who lives in those parts and knows the paths like the back of her hand. She led the way as we strolled down one trail and then another, past a daycare, a park, and pickle ball courts (my first time to witness the sport). 

While such walking doesn't expand the mental mapping capacities, it can be lovely to turn off the piloting function, to be led, to follow. 

(Signs in Sintra, Portugal, where my mental mapping switch was most definitely turned to "on.")

Leaf on Leaf

Yesterday's walk took me on the Reston trail that loops behind the church, a lofty forest and a most beauteous sight on a warm and breezy late fall morning. 

I paused several times to snap a photo, to catch an angle of light, a leaf in its falling. 

I noticed how tumbling leaves sometimes snag and catch, land on other leaves, which cup and protect them, as if to say, we'll keep you here another day, here on a branch and not on the ground. We'll keep you upright, limb-bound, a creature of air not yet of earth. 

Saints and Souls

The poet John Keats described autumn as the "season of mist and mellow fruitfulness." But this is one of the first foggy mornings we've had all fall. 

It's a lovely one, though, softening the vivid yellows of the tulip poplar leaves, making it difficult to see the houses across the backyard, let alone across the street.

Fog is atmospheric and perfect for this morning, post ghosts and goblins, the feast of all saints and the eve of all souls.