Making Connections

I learned yesterday that federal infrastructure grant money isn't just going to roads and bridges. Some of it, admittedly a small bit of it, is going to trails. 

The D.C. area will get $25 million to improve pedestrian and bike connections throughout the area, part of what is hoped will be 900 miles worth of local trails throughout the District and five counties of the DMV.

While some of the money will be spent sprucing up paths that are already there, other parts will be used to provide connections between trails. That's the part that interests me. People love to walk or bike, to move through space on their own steam. But they also like, in fact they need, to get somewhere, to commute to work, for instance. 

I know from my own explorations this winter how exciting it is to find passages between trails, to know that your wanderings can take you somewhere. And I'm glad that the humble little trail systems of our country are getting at least a small part of their due.

Summer and Smoke

For me and for many, summer is a recharging season. A lot of the recharging occurs outdoors. Whether it's walking the trails, writing on the deck, or dining al fresco, summertime is outside time.

But not this summer. This summer I check my phone first. This morning the air quality index is 153, Code Red. So I'll write from my office and exercise in the basement. There are plenty of indoor projects — cleaning up decades worth of clutter, for starters. 

I won't be idle. But I won't be happy. 

And yet ... it's the way many of the world's people live everyday, without the privilege of working at (and inside) the home. Missing summer is the least of their concerns. I'll keep them in mind today.

(Summer in the city, where there was no smoke last week. A tip of the hat to Tennessee Williams for the post title.)

First Storm

Yesterday I was writing outside on the deck, as I often do these days, when I realized how dark it had become, darker than twilight. 

I wanted to stay outside while the storm was brewing, but began preliminary shutdown so I could run in at the first drops, a caution imposed on me by the (ahem) delicate nature of the electronics in my care. I covered the wooden rocking chair, tucked away the seat cushions, and moved books and phone inside.

Not long afterward, the wind picked up in earnest and I skedaddled completely inside, up to my second-floor office where I snapped this shot. 

Oh, what a storm it was! Rain blowing down the street, like so many curtains swishing. Fat drops pelting the garden, which needs moisture so desperately. Even some hail thrown in for good measure. 

It was my first big storm of the season ... and it did not disappoint. 

He Died Walking

I don't read the newspaper obituaries everyday, but on Sunday one particular one caught my eye: it was about Esteban Volkov, who died at the age of 97 in Mexico. He was the grandson of Leon Trotsky.  

A mini history lesson, this article describes how Trotsky fled Russia after a power struggle with Stalin following Lenin's death. Volkov's father, a political supporter, was imprisoned and killed, and Volkov's mother, Trotsky's daughter, committed suicide. Volkov eventually ended up in Mexico City, living with his exiled grandfather. 

Volkov returned from school one day to find his grandfather dying in the arms of his wife and a security guard. After escaping assassins other times, Trotsky was killed with an icepick by a man who pretended to be his admirer. Young Volkov wasn't safe, either, once hiding under his bed as a gunman fired shot after shot into his mattress. 

Volkov promised his grandfather he'd never go into politics, becoming an engineer instead. But after the fall of the Soviet Union, Volkov, by then retired, opened a museum about Trotsky in Mexico City. It now hosts 50,000 visitors a year. 

The obituary has a noteworthy conclusion, as Volkov's daughter describes her father's many positive traits: "He liked nature, mountains, the ocean and loved music, with Shostakovich and Stravinsky his favorites. He never stopped walking and even died while walking, outside his nursing home." He died while walking, three years shy of his 100th birthday. That's something to aspire to.

(Volkov, lower right, with his grandparents. Photo courtesy Wikirouge.)

 

Humidity of Home

It's not that Manhattan defies seasons, not completely. It can be stiflingly hot there, and bitterly cold. But weather does not rule as it does in other places I've lived. 

I remember my first winter in the city, being amazed when snow finally stuck on the pavement. I thought that all the heat underground — the subway, smoke belching from grates — would make it impossible for white stuff to accumulate. It eventually did, of course, but the city itself is an excellent distraction from all things meteorological. 

All this is to say that last week I was ensconced in a season-free bubble, so this week I open my eyes (and my pores) to the new season in town: summer. I know this not just from the calendar, and the writing on the street, but from the humidity, which began building Saturday and is now gearing up for a sticky, months-long run. 

What can I say — it can be miserable, to be sure, but it's the humidity of home. 

Charm and Caution Tape

I write this morning from my quiet cocoon in the suburbs, pining for the cacophony I left behind. I stayed near NYU Hospital and the entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel, and except for the dead of night there was seldom a time when sirens weren't sounding and horns weren't honking.

A nuisance? It would be if I lived there. But as a visitor I accept it as part of the bargain. You come to the largest city in the country not for silence but for stimulation, and of that there was plenty. 

As I lace up my trusty tennis shoes for a walk through the neighborhood, I think about what they took me through yesterday: up and down the East River Greenway and across the city to Penn Station, dodging traffic, construction and the yawning maw of open basement stairways. 

The whole city should be wrapped in yellow caution tape. But that, strange to say, is part of its charm.

(I snapped this photo on yesterday's walk.) 

Manhattan Monochrome

The clouds moved in and gave the photos from Roosevelt Island a monochromatic moodiness. But they didn't spoil the views of Manhattan, which are primo from this two-mile strip of land in the East River.

There's the United Nations building on the left and the Chrysler Building and One Vanderbilt faint gray in the middle of the shot. There are skyscrapers made of steel and glass and masonry. There is the city in all of its heft and all of its of splendor.

I lived in New York City for five and a half years and never stepped foot on Roosevelt Island. I made up for it yesterday. 

Commuters' Choreography

With all this energy and all these people, the question is why there are not more collisions. I'm not talking about people and automobiles, but about people and people. By what strange grace do pedestrians keep from running into each other?

I went to Grand Central Station to try and learn the answer. I observed commuters rushing to their trains, entering from 42nd Street or from the Met Life building, heading in scores of directions at once, never colliding. 

There's an almost balletic precision to the movements, many narrow misses, but somehow people get where they're going without rehearsing any of the bobs and weaves required to do it.

It's worthy of Balanchine: the commuters' choreography.

It's Baaaack!

Where to start, except to say that this place I once lived, this place I once feared had fallen prey to the emptiness and ennui that plagues many cities these days, has not only survived, it's thrived. 

New York City is back ... and it's better than ever! Or at least that's my humble opinion, influenced no doubt by a spot-on day of walking from east side to west side, uptown to down. Others might disagree, might say it's dirtier, more crime-ridden. And I wouldn't argue, given my tourist perspective. 

But as a place of great energy and drive, where people of all types rub shoulders with each other, where sirens blare, horns honk, street music sings, it cannot be beat.  

Big Apple Bound

It's been a two years since I took in the Big Apple, so I'm heading up there today, to walk, visit with a dear friend, and soak up the big city vibe. 

Though I've traveled far and wide since then, it still seems like the place of places to me, where all roads lead. In my case, train tracks. But then, a lot of tracks lead there, too. 

I'll do what I always do in any city, but especially this one — I'll put as many miles on my old tennis shoes as I possibly can. I'll become, at least for a few days, a walker in the city. 

Night and Day

Last night, after the kiddos were rounded up and their weary parents pulled away from the house, heading home, I noted the miracle that's so easy to ignore this time of year, the great gift of evening daylight. 

Family activities postponed my morning walk, but there was still (barely) enough light to take a late stroll. It had been awhile since I took this walk on the downwind side of the day, and I couldn't help but notice how different it was. 

Yellow lamplight glowed through windows. Late birds rustled in the trees. Sprinklers made that tst, tst, tst sound. I was the only walker on the road. Houses and lawns that look ordinary at 8:30 a.m. look positively fetching 12 hours later. 

With walking, as with so much else, timing is key.

Dads and Babies

On this day of dads, I'm thinking about babies, too, especially one particular baby who is napping upstairs. In fact, it's only because she's napping that I'm able to write this post.

On this day of all days, fathers and babies naturally belong together.  Dads (and grandpas) have a way of jostling, tossing, blowing on tummies and just generally making an infant's day. 

I'm sure this infant would agree. 

Singing Chicken

For years I stored my oldest journals in metal boxes tucked away on the highest shelf of my closet. I had to stand on a step ladder and move so much stuff out of the way to reach them that it was as if they didn't exist. But now they're placed spine-side-up in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet next to my desk, so they are ripe for exploration.

Before my discovery of Moleskine notebooks I gathered my thoughts in a hodgepodge of blank books bound in everything from leather to corduroy. The journals are a motley crew, but they served the purpose, which was connecting the dots, remembering, as Joan Didion wrote, "how it felt to be me." 

Sometimes I dip into them for a fact: When exactly did I leave for that trip to Yugoslavia? How long did I work for the lovable but crazy family on West 94th Street? But I always read more than I intended. 

The other day, I discovered an encounter I had with a singing chicken. The "chicken" had been hired to serenade a friend and colleague on her birthday. My job was to meet the chicken and escort him to my friend's desk. In his other life, the actor who took on this second job was playing Theseus in a production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Or at least that's what he told us.

You can't make this stuff up. But, if you're lucky, sometimes you write it down. 

Stepping Up

I've never been a step counter, so the headline in yesterday's newspaper, "New Walking Tips Drop the 10,000 Steps Goal," wasn't a disappointment. But given that the article was about walking, well, I had to read it. 

I learned some interesting facts: While experts have lowered the 10,000 steps goal— the number of steps doctors recommend we get each day for healthy living — they haven't lowered it by all that much. For adults under 60 it's 8,000 to 10,000 and for those over 60 it's 6,000 to 8,000.

What I found especially useful were the equivalencies: 1,000 steps is approximately half a mile, and 3,000 steps represents about a half hour of walking. Helpful — to a point. I usually measure a walk by the number of ideas it inspires ... and I've yet to see a scale for that. 

Fellow Travelers

Some emerge just past dawn for their morning stroll, eyes blinking, still taking in the light. They leave early for the office or they can't sleep or they feel dutiful getting in their steps early. 

Others require a cup of tea or other sustenance, so you might find them in the 8 or 9 o'clock hours.

Still others just squeak by calling their daily perambulation a morning walk. They start at 11 a.m. and return just in time for lunch. 

What all of these people have in common, though, is that they are regulars. I see them most every day, depending on when I hit "the track" (also known as the main street of my neighborhood). Some of them I know well, others only by sight. But they are my companions, my fellow travelers, and I honor them all.

The Convert

The skin is an organ. But it's an organ that blushes. No wonder, then, that we treat it differently than we do, say, our liver or spleen. Specifically — and especially at this time of year — we protect it from the sun. Or we don't. 

For many years, I actively sought a tan. I was a member of the baby-oil-and-baking-on-a-beach crowd. I sunbathed on my towel in various parks in Chicago and New York City. I'd spend entire days outdoors daubing on only a little SPF 8. I even laid out on the hot tar roof of my Greenwich Village apartment. 

Tans made me look better, I thought. They evened out my skin tone, gave me a rosy glow. They also, through the years, damaged my skin. 

I converted to sunscreen years ago, 45 SPF or higher. But this summer, I'm redoubling my efforts. I reapply often. Sometimes, I even carry sunscreen around in my purse. I've become, if not fanatical, at least responsible.  And so, I enter the summer pasty and white — or make that pale and healthy.

Dry Zone

In the woods, the little bridges are still there, but the streams they cross are running dry.

In the meadows, the earth is bare, cracked, hard-packed. My shoes scuff up dust. Even the grass has stopped growing as quickly as it usually does in June.

From the looks of the sky today, though, I think we're in for some relief. I'm imagining great sheets of rain, the ground soaking it up, the small runs flowing again. And later, how easily the weeds will give way. I'll pull them up by the fistful.

Wandering Home

As much as I extoll the practice, walking in the suburbs is largely for exercise and mental refreshment, for perspective. It's difficult to run errands or visit folks without jumping in the car.

But yesterday I had time to amble through the woods to meet a friend, who lives on the other side of a county forest.

On the way there I had my eye on the clock, picking up the pace to reach her house more or less when I said I would. But on the way home I savored the green splendor of the stroll, birds ruffling the underbrush, stream water pouring over and around a flat rock.

It felt like rain, clammy and portentous. I took my time, reveled in the mood and the moment. I wandered home.

As the Smoke Clears

As the smoke clears, there are shadows once again, and colors, not just a haze of gray. 

As the smoke clears, the outdoors comes into its own, a place to walk and talk and read, not scenery on the other side of glass. 

As the smoke clears, children walk to the school bus. Later they'll gather by the basketball goal and rope swing to play.

There will be dinners al fresco, dogs barking, the neighbor yelling at his sports team through an open window— small wonders made possible by a shift in the wind, a passing shower. 

Cars in Clothes

The Jeep caught my eye, not because of its sleek lines or elegant design, but because of the perky bow on its spare tire. 

Why do people dress their cars, give them antlers in December and bunny ears in spring? Is it because they spend so much time in their vehicles that the autos are an extension of themselves? An attempt to humanize the vehicle so we act civilly around it? Or is it pure whimsy that drives this practice? 

I'm going with that last explanation because it makes me smile.  To celebrate this Jeep's "attire," I snapped a shot while stopped at a light. 

There's a twist to this story, an amazing one too, given the number of cars I pass in this auto-dependent suburb. Four hours later, I spotted the same car, miles away from where I saw it the first time. 

Car clothes aren't just fun then, they're a powerful identifier. The moral of this story: Dress your car if you must, but be sure it behaves itself. 

Just the Same

The Pacific Northwest is a city of vistas, proof of the good things that happen when water and mountains meet. 

Here on the other coast, a gentler, calmer, less dramatic form of beauty. My eyes adjust to it as they would a darkening room. 

I snap shots of one fetching curve of a favorite walk, note how trees and grasses frame a small pond. This is not the vast expanse of Puget Sound, the white-topped Olympic Mountains in the distance.  It's a more humble, everyday kind of beauty. But it's beauty, just the same. 

Smoke and Booms

Did you hear the boom, was the question on everyone's lips yesterday.  It was a sonic boom caused by the scrambling of fighter jets to pursue a private plane that had wandered off course and into restricted airspace. I watched videos of people enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon, gardening, doing chores — when they suddenly looked up and around, ran outside if they were in and inside if they were out. 

It's been decades since I heard the sound, and I didn't recognize it at first. But when I read yesterday's newspaper (old school, I know), it all became clear.

What hasn't become clear are our skies, filled as they are now with smoke from Canadian wildfires. 

We may think we're living our own little disconnected lives, but the smoke and the booms are reminders that, in many ways, we are one. 

Morning Room

I write from a room that has no name. Once, it was the dining room, then a playroom, finally an office. For the last few years, though, it was Copper's room. 

Silly to give a dog a room, but this old house has been most elastic through the years, bursting with children at one point, letting them go, welcoming back when they needed to land here for a while. Now it's just the two of us, so there was space enough to give our pooch a largish doggie bed here, especially since he was no longer able to jump up on the couch.

So this odd little room with doors on two sides and windows on the third, so impractically sized and now without its primary occupant, awaits its next assignment. Will it be a library, a den, a music room? Perhaps all three. 

But I have another idea. This space with its tall front windows is the first to catch the early light. It sounds like something out of a 19th-century novel, but, at least in my mind, I'll call it the morning room. 

Loop Walk

Can confusion be knit into a landscape? Is there something about a particular topography, no matter how serene it appears, that can turn our heads? Would I be asking these questions if I didn't think there was? Yesterday I took a path I've hiked several times before. Once again, I paused at the juncture of three trails. Once again, I chose the "wrong" path.

Or was it? This trail led me into a cool green forest along the Snakeden Branch. I took deep breaths, heard a bird I didn't recognize. I knew approximately where I was. No need for panic. In fact, when the trail spit me out on a major thoroughfare, I realized there was circular potential.

The rails-to-trails marvel that is the W&OD was nearby, and the path I missed intersected it. If I could find that juncture, I could take a loop walk. The W&OD was sunny, and I wasn't sure how long I would be on it. Just when I thought I'd missed the crossroads, I saw the sign and escaped through a bright meadow into deep shade.

It was a different walk than the one I meant to take, but a good one just the same.

A Pile of Petals

The climbing rose has come into its own, has come into and gone past it, if you want to know the truth. But it hung in there long enough for me to see it, even after I had the audacity to spend 10 days away during its peak blooming period. 

I attribute the rose's survivability to scant rain and wind — and maybe, even to profusion: with so many buds to bloom, the process takes time.

Now comes the season of deconstruction, of light pink petals falling gently to the deck, the railing, the glass-topped table, even into the dregs of my morning tea. 

I keep a pile of petals beside me as I work. From time to time, I run my fingers through them and feel their velvety softness.

(The climbing rose seen from above and the pile of petals I kept beside me as I work.)