The Low Country

There was one point in yesterday's drive when the GPS inexplicably sent us off on a 17-mile detour, presumably because of a traffic jam ahead.

Whether or not this was necessary — or a wild goose chase — may never be known. But though it had already been a long trip and I was more than ready to be done with it, I tried to take in the surroundings, to feel the flatness of the land and the nearness of the water.

It was only then, during that brief sojourn away from the buzz and roar of I-95, that I felt I was truly in the low country.

A Novel Town

St. Bonaventure Cemetery. Forsyth Park. Jones Street. The Bird Girl statue. 

I've been on a crash course to learn about Savannah, Georgia, before we leave for that beguiling city for a family wedding. 

Already I'm encouraged, since many of the sights the city pitches are ones made famous from a novel that became a movie. 

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was an unlikely bestseller when it came out in 1994, but went on to become a feature film that has helped to define Savannah as a Southern Gothic playground, dripping with Spanish moss. 

My walking shoes are ready. 

(Photo: VisitSavannah.com)

Bowling in the Rain

We've had some rain lately, which reminds me of one morning in Oban, Scotland, when I was awakened by the sound of shouts and laughter wafting up from the bowling green beneath the windows of the B&B. 

It was pouring — but that wasn't stopping the lawn bowlers. They were swaddled in rain gear, playing their game with the cool concentration of professionals. Cool being the operative word because it was about 50 degrees in mid-August.

I admired the pluck of the players, and later in the day, when it was warmer and dryer, circled back to watch the game. I still can't say I understand it. But I do get the spirit of it, which seems to be, forget about the weather — have fun! A good lesson to keep in mind. 

Cloudy Day

A quiet walk on a cloudy day. A rarity here, and I savored it, strolling through the dim light, noticing how still it was, how few sounds I heard. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath. 

The pavement was damp from weekend rains and wet leaves slicked the path. There were twigs and small sticks, too. It was as if the woods had been partying and had yet to clean up after itself. 

This morning I wake to more rain. I'm hoping it will stop later so I can take a walk. If I'm lucky it will be still and cloudy again.

Babies and Blankies

Parents in the know understand that blankets are no longer recommended for babies in the first year of life. Newborns are swaddled, infants wear wear sleep sacks, and only at one year of age are little ones thought ready for the real thing.

Who am I to argue against the wisdom of experts? That said, I do enjoy tucking a soft blanket around a sleeping baby. 

So yesterday I was thrilled to do just that with Aurora Anne, 12 months and two weeks of age. This morning I folded the blankie that covered her and put it away. If I held it close and inhaled it deeply I could pick up a trace of her sweet baby scent. 

The Red Load

Yesterday, while doing laundry, I realized that I had enough pink, purple, maroon, and crimson clothing to comprise a red load. 

As a kid, I learned to corral my reds into a separate washing machine load, and for many years — with three little people's laundry to do as well as my own — I often did. 

But it's been years since I washed that many clothes at one time, so I usually cheat. I tuck a red plaid shirt or cherry-colored tunic into a dark load, use cold water and hope for the best. 

I'm rejoicing now to see all these reds in one place because it means I've finally moved beyond my decidedly neutral (gray, navy, etc.) wardrobe into more colorful garb. My laundry style will just have to keep up with it.

Backward Glance

I know people who extol the beauties of fall — the color, the crispness, the end of humidity — but I'm not one of them. To me there's always a backward glance at this time of year.

I don't mind the heat, I relish cicada song, and I love the long days that summer brings.

So on the last day of this summer, I'm reveling in the sun that's trying to peak through the ever-thickening cloud cover, and I'm savoring the adventures — from Seattle to Scotland and all the places in between.

Low Water

Plants are parched. Streams are struggling. Some might say it's time to water. I say ... it's time to cross a creek on stepping stones.

I was thinking of a stretch of the Cross County Trail close to my house (though not close enough to walk to, of course), which has thwarted me before because of an almost submerged stone crossing. 

Yesterday the water level was low enough to make the crossing easy. And that single detail opened up a world of forest and creek and pasture. Plus one of my favorite sections of the trail, which skirts a bamboo-fringed pond.

Just as low tide reveals a wealth of sea life, shells and sand dollars, low water offers up paths for trekking, vistas for gazing. In other words, possibilities.

The Wild Side

Yesterday I found the trail I was looking for. It was tucked away in a corner of the county that adjoins the Fairfax County Parkway and its monolithic soundproof walls. 

The path featured several fair-weather stream crossings, but nothing that could scoot below or hang above all that parkway asphalt, as impassable as a raging river. 

There was a tunnel under a lesser road, though, a dark enclosure that paralleled a stream. I took that — despite the warning.

Sometimes you have to walk on the wild side.  Even in the suburbs. 

From Hillock to Hammock

Yesterday I hiked off in search of a trail I'd heard about over the weekend. It was a path I thought I knew, but after reaching it, I quickly discovered it was just a short cut-through route. 

A waste of time? Not really. One good thing about living somewhere a while is knowing approximately where you are, even when you're turned around. 

I knew that if I backtracked up a little hillock I would find a street that connected me with an entire trail system, one that would take me home.

Ninety minutes later, I was relaxing in the hammock. 

A World Without ...

I was driving down the road, a crowded highway that required my (almost) undivided attention, when Beethoven's Fifth Symphony came on the radio.

This is the warhorse of all warhorses, the world's most famous symphony, whose opening notes — dot, dot, dot, daaaaasssshhhh — became associated with victory in World War II, the short, short, short, long of the letter V in Morse code corresponding with Churchill's two-finger V for victory sign.

It's not my favorite Beethoven piece. I couldn't even begin to imagine what that would be: The second movement of the Seventh Symphony, which first came to life for me in the basement of the University of Kentucky's performing arts building?  One of Beethoven's piano sonatas, which I have tortured for decades with my amateur playing? Or maybe the magisterial Ninth Symphony?  That's a logical candidate.

But no. It was his work in toto I considered as I drove, pondering what the world would be like without Beethoven, which is unimaginable. How many other artists have similarly enriched our lives? We all have our lists, whether they contain de Kooning or Flaubert, Springsteen or Brahms. There is an endless supply of artist names to list, of course. I just randomly chose these, except for Brahms, of course. 

(Brahms portrait by Hadi Karimi)

Saving Posts

For the most part, I write a post, read it over once or twice to check for typos, then pretty much let it go. But today I've been making sure I have all the posts I've ever written, grouped in months, in PDF files on my computer. 

I couldn't help but read a few as I went along: There was the round-the-world trip of 2016. 

And something much smaller: riffing on journalism after seeing the movie "Spotlight," and remembering how my daughter said the film was "a little slow." That made me smile.

And then there was the couch sitting in a field in the Rocky Mountains. There's a story behind that one, as you might imagine. 

Testing Negative

So often just the single line. Even when I had fever and chills, congestion and headache. But then, two weeks ago, two lines appeared, clear and undeniable. Positive. 

I quarantined, masked, rested ... and eventually re-emerged. 

But the final step remained. Yesterday I swabbed, stirred, waited. 

And lo and behold, a single line. 

Testing negative never felt so good. 

Open Windows

The wind has changed, the humidity has dropped, and I'm about to take a walk in a long-sleeved t-shirt.  I may even pull my hands up into the sleeves.

Our September heat wave looks to be at least temporarily in abeyance. 

The best part: open windows. 

Down of a Thistle

Several days during the trip last month the air was filled with flying fluff. It took a while to determine the source, to realize that the fluff was the down of a thistle, the national flower of Caledonia.

Here's a perfect example of vacation thinking. Were I at home, I would find the thistle a weed and the fluff frustrating evidence of its spread. But in Scotland, I found it enchanting, winged messengers of hope and beauty.

Watching the gossamer stuff float through a heathered Highland landscape was a magical experience. It brought the Clement Clarke Moore lines to mind:

"He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle/And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle ..."

And that's just what we did — fly away, that is.  I miss that magical vacation thinking. 

(I saw a lot more heather than thistles.)

Worth the Wait

I'm going to stay with The Power Broker for this post, too. I realize that most of my comments about the book have been about its weight. But 923 pages into it I can say at least a few words about its content. 

The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York is an in-depth portrayal of New York City's traffic and building czar, Robert Moses, who held sway over the Big Apple for more than three decades, crucial years during which much of the city's modern infrastructure was shaped. 

Moses built parks and dams, bridges and highways. He moved rivers and shorelines, condemned homes and destroyed neighborhoods. He shaped not just New York but all the cities of this country, because New York was held up as a model. And in it, public transportation took a back seat to the automobile. That there was a connection between this deficit and the highways that were clogged with traffic almost immediately after opening was just beginning to be understood in the 1940s and 50s. 

The book is also a study of power, how it seduces and changes a person and, by extension, the places over which that person has control. In this meticulously researched account of Moses, author Robert Caro shows young reporters and writers how to tell a big story, one so big that for years it wasn't understood, let alone written. 

It's for that reason that the book was assigned as summer reading before I entered a graduate journalism program years ago. I bought it then, a used copy for $7.50, but am only now getting around to reading it. The book has been worth the wait — as well as the weight. 

(Entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel, which Moses tried to block. He disliked tunnels.)

Weights and Measures

In the book section of yesterday's newspaper an article on feeling guilty about tomes we've never read featured a book I'm finally reading — The Power Broker by Robert A. Caro. 

I found it interesting that the reason given for not reading this one was its weight. "It's just heavy by itself, and that physical weight also weighs on my mind about having to heft it while reading it," John Nash of New Mexico told the Washington Post. 

Tell me about it! I was hefting it last night at 4 a.m. when I couldn't sleep. And I've been hefting it ever since returning from the trip, where every book I read weighed exactly the same, as much as my 7.2-ounce Kindle.

I like to think I've adapted to the rigors of reading this four-pound behemoth, though. Pillows help. 

September 10th

It's Grandparents Day, and as we prepare to celebrate another family birthday (they come in clumps, don't they?), I'm thinking, actually, of my parents. 

They were never able to do what I'll do today, which is to wake up in my own house and drive 25 minutes to hold, tickle, cuddle and celebrate a precious grandchild on her special day. I know they missed this, and I wish they'd had it. 

I'll be the first to admit that I chafe at the suburbs, that I look for opportunities to leave and spend weeks wandering around European villages where beauty is given greater priority than it is here. 

But here ... is where my heart is. 

(Happy 1st Birthday, Aurora Anne! photo: CCG)

Bouncing Back

In the saga of returns, there is the personal return, as in people flying home to their primary residence. And then there is the return of the residence itself, when it comes into its own again. 

This old house was well cared for during our absence by the girls, who came over with their families to mow the lawn, water the plants and sometimes just to hang out. But last night was when it fully arrived. 

It was just a family birthday party, but these can be pretty lively. There were the toddlers shrieking, a baby cruising, and the oldest, the birthday boy himself, savoring the special meal and gifts. Hanging over it all, the parakeets sent out their joyous squawks. 

Now, more than ever, we're back.

(The trampoline usually plays a part in these big family gatherings. Photo: CCG.)

The Locals

It's still pleasant on the deck at 8 a.m. as I watch the locals begin their day. Sparrows hop on and off the feeder, leaving it swinging slightly with their featherweight hops. 

A downy woodpecker clings to a post, and a bluebird lands on the deck railing, sees me and flies away. 

Now that the coneflowers have gone to seed the goldfinches have arrived. They enjoy the zinnias, too, which are still plentiful enough for cutting. 

From the neighbor's yard, I hear bluejays screeching and crows cawing. And in the tangle of rose branches above my head, a chickadee calls, as if to say, don't forget about me.

All that's missing is the whir of a hummingbird's wing. 

I'm waiting.

On the Road Again

The last time I strolled any distance was on the streets of Edinburgh. Covid has kept me down and given my feet something they've been wanting for months — a break. 

But the break is over, feet. You're on the line again, or, more to the point, you're on the road again. This morning I woke up early and strong enough to tackle the neighborhood loop. 

Yes, it will be 101 today, but at 7 a.m. it was a comfortable. 73. I walked and walked.

It felt terrific.

(Pedestrians on the Royal Mile.)

Ephemera

A woman enters the tiny chapel and crosses herself. I doubt she saw me notice but I noticed just the same. 

The couple in line in front of us can't take their eyes off each other, are forever touching shoulders, exchanging smiles. She has short hair and dimples. He wears a plaid shirt. 

There were hundreds of moments like these on our trip through Scotland last month. Little things I glimpsed that I don't want to forget. The ephemera of travel. 

They are like this section of Hadrian's Wall, a stretch that runs along a lane that's currently in use. Here is this historical marvel, traces of a structure built two thousand years ago, and we're driving along beside it as if it was a 21st-century shoulder. 

The ordinary becomes extraordinary. And vice versa. 

On Location

On this Labor Day I'll continue my past few days track record of doing pretty much nothing, which is all I've felt like doing. But I have been able to read and watch movies, especially one film I'd been thinking about while we were in Edinburgh — "Chariots of Fire," which won the Academy Award for best picture in 1981 and is a favorite of mine.

I learned that many of the scenes were shot in Edinburgh locales, including an old church (are there any other kind there?), an elegant eatery, and up in the Salisbury Crags near Arthur's Seat. 

It was doubly fun to watch the movie realizing that I was right there only a few days ago. Kinda dorky, I know. But entertaining, just the same. 

(For "Chariots of Fire" fans, Harold and Sybil enter Cafe Royal through the revolving door that's in the foreground while a band strikes up "Three Little Maids From School.") 

A Souvenir

I returned home with an unwelcome souvenir: a case of Covid, the first time for me, or at least the first I've known about. Luckily, I didn't contract the virus until a couple of days before departure, and it didn't fully reveal itself until I got home. Since home is the best place to be when under the weather, I've been more reconciled to the trip's end.

On the other hand, I miss the energy that usually accompanies a return: the joy of hugging family I've missed, the bustle of doing the laundry — mine is still piled up, optimistically, in front of the washing machine.

I'll spend the next few days sipping Gatorade, nibbling crackers ... and dreaming about where I was last month. 

(Portree, on the Isle of Skye)

When Your Heart Speaks

Through the randomness of notebook selection, the travel journal I took along for this trip has the following words on its cover: "When Your Heart Speaks, Take Good Notes."

It was a gift from long ago, and I always liked its whimsical, wry message. I chose it for the trip because I'd just completed one of my larger, hardbound journals and was looking for something smaller and lighter. 

The notebook worked like a charm. It's 6 inches by 6 inches, spiral bound, 180 pages. I wrote loopy and large with generous margins (unlike my usual), and am hoping to finish it today, cheating by just two days with "end-of-trip" thoughts. 

I've leafed through it this morning, marveling at what I might already have forgotten had I not written it down: the taxi driver in Fort William who used to be a shepherd, the group of hikers in Kererrer who found my sweater and gave us a ride back to town from the ferry, the absolutely perfect cottage I saw during that rainy walk in Oban.

It wasn't my heart that was speaking. It was the world.