For the Women

On this, the last day of Women's History Month, I'm thinking about the women in my life: my daughters, sister and mother, my sisters-in-law, grandmothers, aunts and cousins.

I'm thinking about my women friends, so many dear ones, some I've known since high school and college, others of more recent vintage. 

I'm thinking about the women I've met on travels around the world, women tackling enormous problems with grace and good cheer.

How strong these women are, kind and capable and funny. Yesterday, still mulling over the tragedy in Nashville and lawmakers' tepid response to it, I thought, if women were in charge, we would do something about it. 

First, we would not be in the same dire predicaments if women were running the world. But even if we were, we would be facing them differently, more collaboratively and courageously. 

I could be wrong, of course. Maybe women would fall into the same traps that men do. But I don't think so. And I hope one day we have a chance to find out.

(I met these women from Ntcheu, Malawi, in December 2018.)

A Few Words on Nashville

I generally avoid writing about political topics here, thinking that we get enough of those from other sources. But it's hard stay quiet about the latest school shooting. Three nine-year-olds! A principal, custodian and substitute teacher! People who love children doing their best to keep them safe. 

If we take a long view of history, the 2020s are not an especially violent time. But if we start with the world in which most of us grew up, then the fact that three months into 2023 we've already had 130 mass shootings (defined as four or more people killed), or the fact that one in 20 Americans owns at least one AR-15 rifle, a gun designed for military use, it's hard to argue that our society isn't violent. 

As it happens, the Washington Post began a series on the AR-15 on Monday. It was the lead story on the Post website ... until the Nashville school shooting took that prime position. 

Undoubtedly, many factors are producing these mass shootings: mental illness, social media, a culture of celebrity, a lack of belonging. The people who are perpetrating these acts, often little more than children themselves (though not in this case), are usually loners, people who in their final acts seek the notoriety they hope will make up for the anonymity in which they've lived. Banning assault weapons would not solve all of our problems. But it would be a huge start. 

I keep thinking about the Covenant parents sending their children off to school in their plaid uniforms, backpacks and lunchboxes in tow. Those parents were expecting to see their kids back home Monday afternoon. They would have offered them a snack, nagged them about homework, given them a hug. Instead, they had to identify their bodies. 

We are the adults. We're supposed to keep our children safe. And we're not doing our job. It's as simple — and as horrifying — as that. 

The Happy Key

The wind chimes languished when they hung from the deck railing. They were close to home but blocked from the breeze that would make them sing. 

For a while now, though, they've dangled from a low limb of the witch hazel tree, far enough out in the yard that the wind catches them, moves their string and clapper. When I'm out in the yard weeding or picking up sticks I hear their song. 

The chimes have been restrung and refurbished several times, but I still remember unwrapping them, the little note that explained they were in the "happy key of D Major."

Is D Major a happy key? I've never minded it. Only two sharps. Not as easy as G Major (one sharp) or C Major (all white keys) but easier than A (three sharps) and E (four). 

I did a bit of googling, learned that Franz Schubert called D Major the key of triumph and hallelujahs. That's good enough for me. 

The Volunteer

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough.

I don't have many lines of poetry at my fingertips, but for some reason, I have these by A. E. Housman. Today, I'm thinking about — and looking at — the pale pink weeping cherry in the backyard.

It wasn't planted, and I wasn't even aware of it until we almost lost it in the great tree debacle of 2018. But it must have been there, growing slowly and a bit crookedly, trying to reach the light through a thick canopy.  

But now the yard is open, tree coverage is sparse, and the delicate plants, including this earnest volunteer, have a chance to shine. 

Such is the life cycle of a forest, even when the forest is in a backyard.

(This volunteer may be kin to another I wrote about several years ago.)

Plodding

Over the weekend, I broke in a pair of hiking boots, my first ever. Though I've hiked plenty, I've always hiked in running shoes, which is pretty much what hiking boots look like these days. 

The clerk who helped me said that as long as I stay in the eastern half of the United States and don't carry more than 15 pounds, I could get away with what he called trail runners. Trail runners look exactly like running shoes, so I passed on them. If I'm finally going to spring for a pair of hiking boots, I reasoned, I want them to resemble the real article at least slightly, meaning bulky, brown and many-laced.

The ones I finally settled on (and I mean finally — I tried on six pairs) look sturdier than tennis shoes but less daunting than I originally imagined. The difference lies in the gait they enforce. One is not fleet of foot in a pair of hiking boots; one plods. But plodding isn't so bad, I've discovered.

A Replacement?

In class this week we talked about good and evil, the decline of religion and the ascendancy of the "spiritual." A question the professor threw out to us then that I'm only answering now is, what is religion's greatest potential alternative? What's replacing it?

There's some irony in answering this question in a social science class because in many ways, the answer to these questions is ... social science. 

Psychology and social psychology have not answered all the questions, but they have provided close-enough answers that the influence of religion has paled. They have answered the problem of evil with the medicalization of evil, a belief that much wrongdoing is due to illness rather than sin. Hard to compete with that. 

The Beauty

I've lost track of how many times I've trekked around the Tidal Basin to see Washington, D.C.'s cherry trees in bloom. More times than I can count, for sure. I've seen the trees with toddlers in tow, with Mom long ago, but for the last many years, I've seen the blossoms alone, usually before or after work.

Yesterday I went down early, as if it were still a workday for me, wanting to beat the crowds. I snapped photos of people, not just blossoms, because it's the people I notice year after year. Old and young, nimble and slow-moving. The amateur photographers and the serious, long-lensed people, too. 

There was a woman in a strapless dress with a pink parasol. She made a lovely focal point for this amateur photographer, but she must have been cold. I was wearing three layers. 

If you look closely at her, you'll notice the water lapping nearly at her feet. Some parts of the path were completely submerged and pedestrians had to detour up a little hill until the trail reappeared. There have been articles lately about the peril the blossoms face with rising sea levels and early blooms. 

But when I saw the trees again, I wasn't thinking about the peril—just appreciating the beauty. 

Seriously Speaking

I've just finished George Saunders' A Swim in the Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading and Life. It's a slightly misleading subtitle because Saunders is the one giving the master class. It's his interpretations of Chekhov, Gogol, Turgenev and Tolstoy. The interpretations are only there because the stories are, of course, but Saunders has a way of parsing and illuminating these classics that makes you want to read them—and do your own best work, too. 

One piece of advice I found especially helpful (even as a nonfiction writer) is when Saunders describes how he came to find his "voice." I use quotation marks here because Saunders points out that we have many voices. What we need to do is find the voice that is most energetic, even if it's not the spare, Hemingwayesque one we originally thought was ours. 

When Saunders first found his "voice" (I will persist with the quotation marks), the story that resulted was the best he'd ever written, he said, but it was no Chekhov or Tolstoy. He felt he had let the short story form down. "It was as if I’d sent the hunting dog that was my talent out across a meadow to fetch a magnificent pheasant and it had brought back, let’s say, the lower half of a Barbie doll.”

In a world in which writing is taken oh-so-seriously, Saunders is seriously refreshing. 

Springing Ahead?

Today is our first full day of astronomical spring, though the chilly morning temps make it feel more like winter. We in the mid-Atlantic have been spoiled this year, with snowdrops blooming in January and daffodils in February. It's been a non-winter. 

Now that we have late light, too, I feel a bit like Punxsutawney Phil, dragged out of his burrow only to dip back in because the sun's too bright. These late-light evenings, as much as they thrill, can seem like too much too soon. 

There's a part of me that still craves the lamplit afternoon, the cozy cocooning feel you have in winter, a pot of soup bubbling on the stove, no outside chores calling my name to add to the inside chores that are always with me. 

In other words, winter gives me a pass of sorts. And now ... that pass is over. 

Nine Years

I'd gotten so used to its timekeeping that when it finally stopped I thought at first that it was my watch that was off. But no, it was Dad's. Almost nine years to the day that he left this world (which is today), his watch stopped ticking. 

I felt bereft, as I knew I would. That watch says Dad to me now. I have so few things that were his. I can still remember how it looked on his wrist, peeking out from beneath one of the long-sleeved knit shirts he liked to wear. 

Of course, the watch will keep its prominent position on my dressing table. But its beating heart is gone. 

I tell myself I had it nine years — just like we had Dad for ninety — but it's never enough, is it? 

The Color Rose

It's a day of rejoicing and the beating of wings. The swallows return to the mission of San Juan Capistrano, and the church celebrates Laetare Sunday, the midpoint of Lent, with its foretaste of joy.

At a morning retreat yesterday, I spoke with a woman who I often see on Sunday but have never met. She walks with some difficulty but always seems cheerful. Emboldened by the conviviality of the day, I reached out and commented on the lovely heathery rose color of her wool suit.

"I'm celebrating Laetare Sunday a day early," she said, laughing. Something about her deliberate choice of this color, about her caring that much, is what I'll remember most about the event.

I went to the retreat expecting wisdom from on high, from the prepared remarks of speakers. Instead, it was an ordinary interaction that made the day.

To Be in Ireland

Truth to tell, I don't think St. Patty's is the day I'd want to be in Ireland, if I was given a choice of going any day of the year. But it's on this day especially that my thoughts turn to the "auld sod." 

A place where the faces look familiar and the landscape is magical. 

Where hearths are warm,  pubs are lively, 

And breakfasts to die for ...

Come to think of it, maybe I would go to Ireland today.

Hold Onto Your Hood

The wind that made beach combing and cycling harder than they needed to be last week in Chincoteague seems to have followed us home. For the last couple of days there have been gusts up to 40 or 45 miles per hour. 

I decided to take a walk anyway, because I was driving past the W&OD and thought I'd give it a whirl. A whirlwind was more like it. 

The breeze blustered, it careened, it nearly knocked me off my feet. And while my hat was fairly secure, my hood was anything but, especially when I was walking into the wind. It blew it right off my head. At times it took both hands on the hood to keep it from flying back.

Luckily, a hood is usually attached to a coat whereas a hat is not. Which makes the phrase "hold onto your hood" ... somewhat nonsensical. 

("Who has seen the wind?" The ripples in this sand dune prove it was there.)

Guest Post

Careful readers of this blog will know that with one exception I write every post every weekday of every year. This has nothing to do with my willingness to welcome new voices and everything to do with why I started A Walker in the Suburbs: to limber up my own voice, cramped as it's been by years of scribing for hire. 

Luckily, not everyone has this proclivity. Many sane bloggers do seek guests posts, and I'm shamelessly plugging one of them here. 

Reflecting the Sacred was started by a longtime friend, avid reader and deep thinker, Gwen Zanin. I'm honored that she asked me to contribute a guest post to her blog. Wishing this new blog many years of posts and pleasures. 

For Ratsy

Her name was Janice but we knew her as Ratsy, a childhood nickname that stuck. The childhood is not mine but Mom's. She and Ratsy met as little girls at a convent boarding school in Kentucky and had the sort of adventures you read about in books. They made up games, imagined ghost nuns in the hallway, and almost hopped a freight to California until a law-abiding friend learned of the plot and tattled on them. 

It wasn't all fun and games, though. Mom and Ratsy missed their parents and homes. But they found much comfort in each other, and they remained close friends — more like sisters, really — to the end of their lives. The end came only two weeks ago for Ratsy, just a month shy of age 96. 

How to describe Ratsy? Pure elegance, sophistication and cool. She and her husband, Monty, worked in Hollywood and knew movie stars like Bing Crosby. Ratsy sent us lovely gifts, a dress and pinafore set I still remember. She made Mom laugh. And she hosted seven of us (four kids, two parents and an aunt) when we drove across the country to California in an old "woodie" station wagon. 

The Ratsy I came to know as an adult was even more impressive. I realized then what she had overcome, living most of her life with the use of only one arm. It was a disability you never noticed — until she was driving you down an LA freeway, with a cigarette in one hand (a habit she later kicked) and wait, how was she steering? Never mind, we survived. 

Ratsy outlived her husband, sister, nephews and many others, but she leaves behind dear friends and family who grieve her passing. With her death, the world lost a true original ... and my family lost a little more of the world that Mom knew and loved.

Quiet Victory

I had a couple other potential posts lined up for today, but I will interrupt my "regularly scheduled" (as if there's anything scheduled about this blog!) programming for just the tiniest of rants about the Oscars. 

As usual, I stayed up till the end, enjoying what I thought was an unusually touching crop of acceptance speeches. As expected, "Everything, Everywhere, All at Once" swept the awards.  

This is where the rant comes in. I actually watched this film, wanting to see what all the fuss was about, and I can appreciate its manic energy and the sweetness of its message. But this multiverse martial arts film left me completely cold — and bored. I figure it's generational — my film-loving millennial enjoyed it very much — but I hope it's not indicative of a new trend in film, ones that I can barely stand to watch.

Luckily, I had slipped off to an actual theater yesterday to see "The Quiet Girl," an Irish movie up for Best Foreign film. It didn't win — the magisterial German remake of "All Quiet on the Western Front" deservedly nabbed that one — but I walked out of the theater with my heart stirred and my soul enlarged. As long as a few movies still do what movies used to do, I'll be content. 

(Above: the empty — I mean completely empty throughout the entire film — theater where I watched the old-school movie "The Fabelmans.")

 

Beach Bling

Water, wind, sand and sky.  From these basic elements flow the beauty of a beach. It doesn't need anything else. But like a little black dress set off to perfection with a single strand of pearls, even simplicity can be enhanced with a little bling.

I've seen beach art before, but never so much of it. On a hike this week we came across scores of tree trunks decorated with whelks, conches, cockle shells — and a few feathers for good measure.

The shell trees made us smile. They invited us to contribute, which we did. They sum up the beach attitude: relax, create, enjoy. 

One Beach, Indivisible

A hike yesterday through the refuge backcountry, so far in fact, that the Maryland state line was less than five miles away. 

I've always thought it would be fun to trek from one state to another, a feat fairly easily accomplished here, since the Assateague National Seashore includes parts of Virginia and Maryland. 

But yesterday's walk stopped short of that, circled around and back to what I love most — the beach. 

For the Birds

There are more birds than people on Assateague Island. Maybe always but especially on a blustery March afternoon. There were snowy egrets in the shallows and a great blue heron that flew up and away as I tried to snap a photo. Piping plovers ran in and out of the waves, in that adorable way they do. Beside them were scores of sanderlings, many hopping on one leg, and gulls, of course, which are always with us.

Most dramatic was the flock of snow geese that spiraled down from the heavens, a murmuration of waterfowl that landed on the spit of sand between Tom's Cove and the Atlantic Ocean. A gift of bird life all the way from Arctic lands. 

Prescribed Burn

Like everywhere else these days, the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge has its share of invasive species. To manage unwanted plants, the refuge plans a series of prescribed burns. One of them was happening yesterday.

Smoke wafted over the estuary and closed the wildlife loop. It hovered above previously singed areas. In other words, it did its thing.

But it didn't interfere with the wildlife. Ponies grazed, squirrels scampered and something large and quick plopped into the water as we passed.

By early evening, the western sky had cleared, making way .... for this.

Back to Virginia

The commonwealth of Virginia stretches from the Blue Ridge Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. Today, we drive toward the latter. But to reach coastal Virginia we'll drive through much of coastal Maryland. 

Chincoteague perches at the top of Virginia's outer banks. We'll spend most of the almost-four-hour drive in the Free State, won't reenter the commonwealth until we're almost there. 

In that sense, we'll have done on the first day of this short getaway what all travels hope to do, which is to bring the traveler home again. 

An Endorsement

A few weeks ago, in a rush of gratitude, I emailed a stranger whose maps I had recently accessed online. It's thanks to his map that I've been exploring the paths in a woods not far from here, the one where I finally found the Northwest Passage. 

I wasn't expecting to hear anything back from the man, but I did want him to know how much I've been appreciating his maps and commentary, what a difference they've made for me.

Late yesterday, I heard from him. He's 88 years old and doesn't check his email as often as he used to, he said. But he credits all the walking he's done with being alive now.

Quite an endorsement for walking in the suburbs. Or for walking anywhere. 

Welcome Wreath

I began to spot them in the forest a few days ago, although from the looks of it they'd been there for a while. The wreaths seem homemade, maybe fashioned from local boughs. 

This one is special though, decorated as it is with an eagle feather. 

Welcome back, the wreath says. Welcome back to the eagles, more common in these parts than they used to be.

Welcome back to the foxes, who prowl and hunt and make their home.

Welcome back to the walkers, including this one. 

A Mind of Its Own

It's been a while since I studied a topographical map. I've had to refamiliarize myself with those little squiggly lines. The closer they are together, I remember, the greater the elevation. 

Sometimes there's a little number there to help. In the case of my terrain it's a little number in more ways than one, something in the 300 range, as in 367 feet above sea level. 

But even 367 can be felt in the legs on the way up — and on the way down. It's a good reminder that the land has a texture and a contour. That it has a mind of its own. 

Suburban Passage

Once again, I'm on a mission, this time to find a passage through the Crabtree Park woods to a street called Foxclove. From there it's a short walk to a Reston trail. 

Having struck out on finding it from my end, yesterday I drove to Foxclove and tried it from the other direction. I reached at least one point I recognized from earlier hikes, enough so that I think I can find my way back there another time. 

Once I have this figured out I'll be able to walk from my house to the trail system I usually must drive to reach. It's not exactly the Northwest Passage, but it's something.