Quality of the Air

Last week's heat exploded in a series of storms that set fires, blew circuits and knocked at least one radio station off the air for a few minutes. I was in the car when Rachmaninoff's Second Symphony suddenly went to static. 

But the result is a welcome bout of cool air, especially up here in Maryland where the family has gathered for a week of hiking, kayaking and hanging out.

For me, it's also time to ponder the quality of air that makes this corner of the state a special place. It's not just cooler and clearer but, at 2,000 feet of elevation, it's closer to heaven, too.  

A Fox on a Walk

Today, on an early walk, I spied a fox crossing the road. Given its location and direction, it could well be the critter I see dashing across my backyard early most days. 

What surprised me is that the fox was heading into the deep woods, not the patch of trees (mostly downed) that fan out from the back corner of our property. 

This gave me a new appreciation for his range and rambles, for the ground he covers and, by extension, the life he leads. 

As I grew closer to the grove where he was hiding, I spied his cute little face and perky ears. He was looking at me as closely as I was looking at him. 

(Top, the woods where I saw the fox, and above, a couple of his fellow wild creatures, grazing in a neighbor's yard as if they owned the place.)

Mood Lighting

All day long they absorb the sun's rays, so by the time night falls they're ready to go. 

The new deck lights emit a spectral glow. Thanks to the cut-outs on their frame, the shadows they throw are squiggly and whimsical.

If you're looking for complete illumination, they're not the way to go. But if you're after mood lighting, a way to be in the darkness but not completely surrounded by it, they're just the ticket.

 

Soon-to-be-Gone

Sometimes I feel like a documentarian. My subject: the felling of trees in my neighborhood. This is not a job I sought or welcomed, but when the giants go, I want to record their passing. After all, they have shaded us for decades, have been beautifying this place for a century or more. Some of them are over 100 feet tall, and I treasure them.

The one meeting its maker today is visible from my office window. I write this post to the sound of chainsaw and wood grinder. The tree is healthy, but its owner fears it might fall on his house. And who can blame him, since a tree fell on the house of his neighbors and damaged it so mightily that they had to move out for months. 

It's a little like shuttling old folks to the assisted living center earlier rather than later. Prophylactic placement, or in this sense prophylactic felling. All I know is, once again I'm recording the soon-to-be-gone.

Power Broker Workout

I wanted to watch “Turn Every Page” as soon as I heard about it last year. The film about the editor-writer relationship between Robert Gottlieb and Robert Caro seemed smart and funny. Gottlieb’s recent passing at age 92 moved the documentary higher on my must-see list, and last week I finally got around to watching — and rewatching — it.

In fact, I can’t seem to stop seeking out clips of the film and thinking about it. Probably because it takes me back to a time when, as the trailer says, “publishing was a religion.” I came of age in that time, working as a magazine editor in New York, and it still seems like the way things ought to be.

Early on, one of Caro's editors shared a piece of advice, something that would sustain the young investigative reporter, "Turn every page," the editor said, exhorting him to be thorough. Caro did turn every page, and has continued to, searching through every box of documents, interviewing every subject. Now he is 87 and racing against the clock to finish the fifth and final volume of his LBJ biography series.

The greatest effect the movie has had on me is that I'm finally reading Caro's first masterwork, The Power Broker, which won the Pulitzer Prize. For me, the imperative is not turning every page but turning any page. My edition of this tome is 1,246 pages and weighs almost four pounds. Holding it up and reading it is putting my arm muscles through their paces. I'm calling my reading sessions the Power Broker Workout.

It's Barbie!

My first one had a bouffant hairdo, not the iconic ponytail. But I loved her just the same. 

I'm talking about Barbie, of course, the doll being celebrated in a new feature film directed by Greta Gerwig.

In honor of the film and of the Barbiemania sweeping the country, I picked up this beauty in the basement. She is, like all my daughters' dolls, much loved. 

Her hair is matted and her dress is stained, but she is the most intact and presentable Barbie I could find. Many of her buddies are missing arms or have short haphazard haircuts. (The fact that dolls' hair doesn't grow back was a fact my kids couldn't seem to grasp.)

Yes, we have heat domes, indictments and droughts this summer. But we also have ... the Barbie movie. 

Scenic Hospitality

I made my first trip to Florida at the age of 10. It took us three days to drive from Lexington to Miami. 

It was January. We'd left the cold behind by day two of our drive, but even so the balminess of the Florida air was a surprise. It was nighttime when we finally pulled into our motel near Biscayne Bay, and the combination of darkness and sultriness has stayed with me all these years, potent memories of a place different from any other I'd visited. 

Florida has changed drastically since then, but it retains that other-worldliness. Like the lush Northwest, Florida is its own place, and it's a privilege to spend a week a year savoring its big sky, palm trees and sugar-sand beach. It's a combination I've come to think of as scenic hospitality, and this morning, back in Virginia, I'm appreciating it all the more.

(A picket fence I walked by every morning on my way to the beach. It's decorated with pineapples, the symbol of hospitality.)

Afterglow

I felt like a commuter walking against the throng. Everyone was leaving. I had missed the sunset, one of the chief entertainments around here.

Taking myself to task as I watched the darkening sky, I wished I'd spent less time searching through the t-shirts and trinkets.

But light was lingering in the west. I could still enjoy the afterglow. Which is what I did ... and what I plan to do as this beach trip becomes another beautiful memory. 

I've Got Rhythm

A walk by the sea provides its own ceaseless beat. In and out. Strike and pause. The rhythm of the surf is the rhythm of life, more or less. 

As I've walked the strand these last few days, I've thought about family and friends, about how grateful I am for them — and how grateful I am for this time apart in which to appreciate them. 

Just as a wave rolls to shore before being absorbed back into the ocean, so does all life pulse with this ebb and flow. We are not inert creatures but products of movement and motion. 

I've got rhythm. We all do. 

Storm Dodger

Storm chasers are bold (some would say foolish) folks who race to observe a hurricane or tornado. I've become just the opposite, a storm dodger. Afternoon showers are such a common occurrence here that I plan my days around them. 

I walk the beach in the morning. At 3 p.m. I'm scanning the sky. Are those dark clouds forming in the west? How quickly are they moving? When do I leave the beach and head for shelter? 

There's an art to this. Depart too soon and I'll miss out on precious time in the sun and surf. Leave too late and I'll be drenched. 

In fact, I'm writing this post while waiting for some storm clouds to pass so I can take a dip in the pool. Another day in the life of a storm dodger. 

Throwing Shade

No insult intended, but all shade is not created equal. There is the thin stuff you find on a warm summer afternoon. It's accidental, created only by the intersection of building and sunlight. It's great to find it, and I've even crossed a street for it, but it's not a true, deep, cultivated shade. 

There's a watering hole I pass on my way to the beach, a small restaurant and bar that has mastered the art of shade I remember from trips to hot, faraway places where air conditioning is nonexistent. 

This is intentional shade: deep and palmetto-fringed. Ceiling fans are whirring and large rotating fans are blowing. The place is recessed but open. Every time I pass by I'm tempted to linger in its recesses, to seek relief in its dark, cool interior.

The Quality of Sand

The discerning beach-walker is a connoisseur of sand. Too hard and it's like walking on pavement. Too soft and it requires twice the effort to go the same distance. 

So one becomes aware of a tension, a balance, between moisture and dryness, tide-in and tide-out. The feet search for this balance without prompting, seeking the best path along the strand.

Sometimes they find it and sometimes they don't. But there's a pleasure in the process. 

Salt Breeze

A return to the ocean and its salt breezes, to palm trees and lizards that bask in the sun. A return to the beach.

I've grown quite fond of the subtropical climate and what it does to the muscles and synapses. In short, it relaxes them. 

It's tempting to end the post right here. 

And maybe ... I will. 

Meet Cleo

This is my second parakeet post in a week, but what can I say ... it's been a bird-dominated week at my house. While we are still mourning the loss of Alfie, we wanted a new friend for his cage-mate, Toby. 

Enter Cleo, the blue bird on the right. This little guy (who may be a gal ... it's too early to tell) seems to be holding his or her own against Toby's tonnage. And we're hoping the new birdie will get Toby up and moving. 

This already seems to be happening. I've seen more cage clambering from Toby in the last few days than in the preceding two months. 

Cleo has a lot of growing to do, and a lot to learn, but Toby is an excellent instructor ... at least when it comes to the the culinary arts. 

From a Distance

I've spent a few evenings this week rocking in the hammock as day dwindles to darkness. It's a show worth watching. 

At first, my focal point has been the sky, the lightning bugs (fewer than last year but still blinking), and the garden, in peak bloom with coneflowers, day lilies, roses and zinnias. 

Eventually, though, I can't help but notice the house, which appears almost fetching in the half-light. I can't spot its deficiencies as I do in the no-nonsense noontime glare. I forget about the azalea that needs pruning, the deck that needs mending, the door that needs replacing. 

All I see is my home. How beautiful it looks ... from a distance. 

Lumber and Mulch

After rhapsodizing yesterday about tree tunnels and way stations, I learned that one of these shady spots had a defector. Another giant fallen. This on a cloudless, breezeless day, not long after I walked by.

I'm not surprised at the toppling. The tree (I'm trying to identify it from its leaves — maybe a cottonwood?) had been leaning for years, and had reached such a precipitous angle that it was only a matter of time before gravity got the better of it.

The trees in my neighborhood can be 80 to 100 feet tall. When one comes down, it can smash a roof or block the street. In this case, since it happened only a few feet before an intersection, it effectively shut down access to the outside world. 

Help was soon on the way. Before you could shout "timber" the thick trunk was chainsawed and pulled out of the way. But this tall, shade-producer, leaning and bent though it was, had become a companion on my walks, a landmark of sorts. Now it's only lumber and mulch. 

Way Stations

The cicadas are buzzing and the air has thickened. Summer is at its sultry best. I don't mind the heat, but I do appreciate a bit of shade when it presents itself. 

I'm lucky to live in a neighborhood with strategically placed tree tunnels. I walked through them this morning and noticed how their cooler air refreshed my step. 

These shady spots are way stations for the summer walker, stretches of pavement to aim for and enjoy. I don't completely pause while in them — but I do slow down. 

Sweet Birdie

Our blue parakeet, Alfie, died last night. He was seven years old and a most splendiferous fellow. He had been ailing for a few weeks, but until recently was as spry as a teenager, clambering around the cage, hanging upside down to nibble on a collard leaf, singing his heart out. 

Alfie taught his young cage mate, Toby, everything he knew, and Toby reciprocated by preening his old friend and literally propping him up at the end. A model of devotion, which I've seen enough of in the animal world to know is the norm rather than the exception. 

In most ways I envy birds — their plumage, their songs and their flight — but in one way I don't. They can never lie down. They must fly or stand until the end.

Alfie's end came last night. Rest in peace, sweet birdie. 

Jollity

Last night under the stars, a glimpse of the planets:  At Wolf Trap Center for the Performing Arts, the National Symphony Orchestra performed Gustav Holst's "The Planets," accompanied by NASA photographs, with my favorite movement, "Jupiter: the Bringer of Jollity," scoring the most applause. 

Jollity is defined as "the quality of being cheerful." Can a planet be cheerful? Perhaps if it's named after the king of the gods. Or if it's a gas giant more than twice as massive as all the other planets combined. 

One reason not to be jolly: what looks in photos to be a big red eye. It's not the result of excessive interplanetary partying, but a centuries-old storm bigger than Earth.

And speaking of Earth, the only planet Holst omitted from his piece, today at 7:15 a.m. EST is the one moment of the year when most of its people are bathed in sunlight — an incredible 99 percent of us. A reason for jollity, to be sure. 

(Photo: Courtesy NASA)

Weed Me!

Here in the suburbs, lawns matter. They're to be green and weed-free, though many of them are not, ours included. 

Driveways, on the other hand, should be as smooth and polished as ebony, well poured and thoroughly sealed. They should not require weeding at all, as this one (full disclosure, mine) so plainly does. 

To which I can only say, as I have for so many other suburban transgressions ... oops!

This Time With Music

This should have been yesterday's post. But yesterday I hadn't yet watched a televised recording of what I witnessed in person the evening before, albeit from a distance.

It's been our habit lately to watch the 4th of July fireworks on D.C.'s mall — the same ones that appear in living rooms across the land — from a ridge in Arlington, across the Potomac. While this provides a hassle-free and far-off glimpse at the gorgeous display, it doesn't supply a soundtrack. 

I got that yesterday, when I took in the replay of what I watched live Tuesday night. This time there were no toddlers jumping on and off my lap, but there was Renee Fleming singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and the National Symphony playing "1812 Overture." 

It was fireworks with music. It was what I'd been missing.

What We Saw in It

One of the tall old trees we lost last year was a prime display tree, the perfect reflector for the fading light of sunset. During numerous deck dinners through the years, our oldest daughter would stop the conversation, point to this particular oak, and say "look at the light on that tree."

Its cousins might have been dark and nondescript at this point in the early evening, but this tree's spot in the yard was perfectly calibrated for late-day light; it looked as if it was lit up from within. 

The play of light on its trunk is one of the lingering losses from that oaks' felling last September. More than the tree itself, I miss what we saw in it. Aren't many losses like that?

The Lady Vanishes?

When I was in New York last month I snapped a photo of Lady Liberty from the High Line. The sky was hazy (though not smoke-filled), and you could barely make out the statue's distinctive profile. (Zoom in and look to the right of the gray girder to see the vague form hoisting her torch.)

As I thought about what to say this morning, I remembered snapping this shot, thought it might have a certain metaphorical significance: the lady vanishes, the statue so far away that it's almost not there at all. 

Don't we feel that way sometimes about our country, about its ideas and ideals, that we've forgotten what unites us in our fights over what divides us? 

The trick, I think, is to do what we can as citizens to keep alive its founding principles: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Tolerance, too. 

Flicker Sighting

Over the weekend, I caught a glimpse of this fellow, a Northern Flicker. 

It was an ordinary Sunday morning on the deck — breakfast and newspaper — and I'd been keeping my eye on a couple of robins who were pecking around in the backyard. There were some doves back there, too, and downy woodpeckers at the feeder.

A sudden flap of wings and there he was: extravagant, debonair. I didn't know what he was at first, only that I'd never seen him before. I marveled at his polka-dotted breast, his crescent-shaped black bib, his long beak and intelligent eyes, which for several long seconds seemed to be looking straight at me. 

After he flew away, I flew inside ... to find the bird book and identify him. It didn't take long. He could have posed for this photo, although he did not. His stay was brief — but post-worthy.

(Photo: Courtesy Cornell Lab: All About Birds.)