Stopping for Sunset

A late walk, not timed for sunset but finding it anyway. There at the end of the street, the end of the neighborhood, the end of the day.

It was not an untrammeled view. Lines and lights and poles obscured it. But maybe, I thought as I snapped, they were the point. Stop, say the red lights. Savor the colors, the clouds, the setting sun. Make time for them as often as you can.  

Summer Bugs

When magnified, as it is every 17 years, the sound is vaguely electrical: a buzz, a hum, a snap. Almost menacing. But when captured on an ordinary June morning it's the sound of summer itself. Light and shimmering and full of promise, if only the promise of heat.

This year I first heard cicadas on June 20, the first day of summer. A fitting debut. It was just a few bars, not even a stanza. A song interrupted, as if the insects were tuning up. 

By now, though, it has become a full-fledged chorus. Sing on, summer bugs. There's no better way to know the season has truly begun. 

Time Optimism

I always believe you can work one more task into the time at hand. Perish the thought of arriving early. I'll try to scribble one more paragraph, crochet one more row. The result: I'm five minutes late when I could just as easily have been on time. 

In the past, people like me would provoke exasperation, even anger. "I don't get it! She's always late." But recently I've heard a term that explains this behavior, a dignified description.

Time optimism is when you underestimate how long a task will take and overestimate how much time time you have to complete it. It's a term I first heard from my youngest daughter, herself a time optimist, a skill she no doubt picked up from me. 

I like looking at lateness in this half-full way. It's not laziness, quite the opposite. But it is habit I'd like to break. So even though I want to explore this concept more right now, I won't. I need to leave here in 20 minutes... and I will. 

Sock it to Me

The newspaper headline caught my eye: "Your Socks are Showing Your Age." The accompanying photo shows two people who both look young to me, one wearing ankle socks barely visible above their shoes and the other wearing crew socks. 

Apparently, Gen Z is embracing the sort of tall, dorky socks that everyone wanted to leave behind two decades ago, the kind you see on old guys mowing the lawn. Young folks now sport crew socks with sneakers and even with high heels. Take that, Millennials, they say as they flaunt their now-trendy tube socks. 

How old do you have to be before you start seeing fashion as a game? Not very. The youngest Millennials are turning 30. 

As a walker in the suburbs, it only figures that I would have an opinion on socks. They are, after all, the interface between foot and shoe. A well-fitting pair puts a bounce in my step; an ill-fitting pair drives me crazy. With socks, as with so much of life, the best approach is one of moderation: neither too high nor too low is the recipe for happiness.

(Photo from Wikipedia's page on socks and sandals, considered a "fashion faux pas" in some places.)

Covering Ground

There is no clear trail around Lake Audubon. There are twists and turns, hidden paths and a bridge it took me years to find. 

But yesterday the pieces all fell together, the landscapes and the streetscapes. There were wooded straightaways and sunny patches. There was neighborhood walking — perfect for ogling lakeside houses I'd love to live in — and forest glades with dappled shade.

I saw anglers, paddle-boarders and dog-walkers. Everyone was up to something, and I was covering ground. The weekend torpor had vanished with the breeze. 

(Banana trees along the lake. Yes, bananas grow in Fairfax County.)

Cool Breeze

Something shifted overnight. It won't last long, so I'd better write fast.  A cool breeze is blowing in from the west, bending the bamboo that fringes the deck, and thin clouds are scuttling through a blue sky.

There is movement and gladness in the air, and the lazy trills of birdsong. 

Colors look brighter, and there are plenty of them, especially in the back garden. 

I'd like to sit here and keep describing it all, but I'd better walk now, before it goes away.

(Two young walkers enjoying a cool breeze a few weeks ago. Photo: CCC)

Boiling Point

In case you haven't heard, there's a heat wave in the Eastern United States, with temperatures of 100 degrees, which will feel warmer with the humidity.

Chances are you have heard, though, because the weather folks have been beating the drum about this since Monday. Through lovely cool mornings and passable afternoons, we're heard about heat domes, hydration and cooling centers. 

It's not just a different kind of weather these days; it's a different kind of weather report.  

Ancient Artifact

I was stopped on my morning walk by a friendly neighbor. He rolled down his car window and asked, "Are you missing a Christmas tree ornament?" It's almost July. Tree trimmings are not on my mind. I uttered something noncommittal. 

"Because we found one in front of your house, near where you might have left the tree for pickup. It was sticking out of the dirt there. A rocking horse?"

Well yes, there was a rocking horse ornament, metal with a looped string to attach it. Could it have escaped my multiple searches through the fir branches in early January?

It could — and it did. The ornament has, uh, weathered, shall we say. It looks like something from the 18th century, not the late 20th. But now it's home again, thanks to a kind neighbor. 

Happy Early Solstice!

Today at 4:51 p.m., the northern hemisphere of our planet officially enters its hottest season. It's the earliest solstice in 228 years, they're saying, since George Washington was president.

I've been thinking of George Washington lately, what with the discovery of 35 bottles of preserved cherries recently found at his home, Mount Vernon. Now I'll think of him again, enjoying the longest day of the year, perhaps in Philadelphia, then the capital of these United States. A few months later, he will deliver his farewell address. 

But back to the solstice, which is early this year because of leap year and our imperfect calendar. I could have waited one more day for it — savored the anticipation — but there's no way to stop a celestial body when it has made up its mind. 

And so I prepare to drain as much daylight and happiness from this day as I can. It's the longest one; it can spare it. 

(A favorite sunrise shot, the beach at Chincoteague, April 2016.)

Patience of the Predator

Yesterday was a day for wild things. I spotted a doe and a box turtle in the woods, and then, while dining al fresco last evening, was visited by a red-shouldered hawk.

The bird landed on the deck railing, just a few feet from the dinner table, and scanned the landscape. I suppose he was wanting his own dinner, perhaps a chipmunk or squirrel. For a few chilling moments I wondered if it might be me. 

The hawk perched for what seemed like forever, long enough for me to slowly turn in the chair and keep my eyes on him, long enough for me to become restless. I had finished my dinner; he'd yet to have his.

My phone was inside, so I missed the chance to photograph him. Instead, I tried to memorize his details: the long, substantial chest; the yellow legs, hooded eyes and beak that meant business. He was completely still as he surveyed the terrain, able to spot the faintest trace of movement. 

What impressed me most was his patience. He was prepared to wait all night if need be. His was a patience born of need, the patience of the predator.

(A hawk I photographed several years ago. Last night's visitor was much closer.)

A Birthday

Through the years, birthdays become attached to the people who hold them. Today will always be Nancy's day, even though Nancy is gone. 

It was on this day, long ago, that I landed in Europe for the first time. The date wasn't accidental. It was Nancy's 20th birthday, and I was meeting her in Luxembourg. We had planned to be chamber maids in a Swiss hotel, but our employment fell through at the last minute. Instead, we traveled through Europe for two months on what I will politely call a lean budget. 

We trudged through London in rain so heavy I thought my shoes would never dry out. We explored what seemed like every Viennese hovel in which Beethoven had ever lived (and there were a lot of them). We toured Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome and Pisa. We scrambled to find places to sleep, and sometimes they were train compartments. 

The trip cemented our friendship, brought it through the decades. I think of our travels now with great wonder and gladness. They bring Nancy closer, which is where I want her to be. 

(Nancy and I spent many hours in train stations, though not this one, which is in Edinburgh.) 

Knowing the Way

It's not something I think about often, but it struck me this morning, as I returned from a walk that took me down neighborhood streets and back home through the woods, that I know the way, that I have this. 

I know the path begins beyond the short guardrails in the cul-de-sac, that it winds down to the creek through ferns and knotweed. 

I know that you can cross the creek easily there, because it's low and there are rocks to help you. 

And I know that if I turn left at the end of that trail, I'll find the main path, which takes me back to the street.

It's a skill older than language: knowing the way home.

Bluuuue Sky

It's not cerulean or azure or aquamarine. To describe the sky I saw on yesterday's walk, we need a new word. I propose bluuuue. Not blue, or even bluuue. This is bluuuue (four 'u's) at its purest and most intense. The hue of a cloudless sky.

I have a reason for describing this on Father's Day.  Dad was the king of blue skies. He didn't seem to notice the clouds, or if he did, he chose to ignore them.

So in honor of him, and fathers everywhere, the bluest bluuuue sky photo I can find.

50 Stars

It's Flag Day, a holiday you don't hear much about but which I usually remember. I looked it up and learned that it commemorates the day when the Continental Congress approved the design of a flag for the United States — June 14, 1777. At that point, the flag had 13 stars and 13 stripes. 

Until 1912, flags weren't as proscribed as they are now. Much was left in the hands of individual flag-makers.  At one point, there were 15 stripes and 15 stars — honoring Vermont and my home state of Kentucky, in addition to the original 13 colonies. 

But adding a star and a stripe for every new state became cumbersome, and by the early 19th century, new states earned a star but not a stripe.

Now our flag has 50 stars, of course. I wonder if there will ever be more. 

Munch, Munch

Yes, they have to eat, too. But does it have to be my day lilies? Or hosta? Or, based on the nibbled stalks I've spied in a neighbor's yard, the cone flowers, too?

I snapped a shot of this little fellow munching some vine or weed in the woods. To him it's all the same: impatiens or Virginia creeper. He can leap most fences and surmount most barriers. Stick with the wild stuff, I tell him as I pass on a walk. I don't think he was listening, though.

A cashier in a garden shop told me about a customer who came in three times to replace the plants deer had snatched from her flower pots. Eventually she gave up and stuck plastic flags in those pots. The deer ate those, too. 

"Open Door Policy"

The term sounds vaguely familiar, like something I learned long ago, and a quick search tells me that it was a system of equal trade and investment in China in the first half of the 20th century. 

I chose the title with another thought in mind: the way it feels to leave the front door open on a perfect June afternoon. An open door policy made possible by a screen instead of glass, and perhaps only good for another day or two. 

So far, we've been able to get by without air conditioning in the house: opening and closing windows at strategic moments, gathering in the morning coolness like an arm full of crisp line-dried laundry.

They're calling for much higher temps by week's end, so we may have to give in and close up the house. But it's been lovely to leave doors and windows open, to breathe in and out with the day.

Circle of Life

Yesterday felt more like a weekend with a daughter and two granddaughters here. At a visit to a nearby farm park, I found myself on the merry-go-round with Bernadette (pictured here with her mama a year and a half ago).

Yesterday I was the one holding way too tightly to the rider, too tightly being a relative term, I suppose. Bernadette will be 4 in October, but hold tight I did. And as we made endless rotations to patriotic favorites like "Stars and Stripes forever," I thought about how many times I took Bernadette's mother on carousel rides, and how particular she was about her mounts — her favorite being the rainbow pony at the National Mall carousel.

Now Suzanne was standing on the sidelines with her newborn, and I was back on duty. The circle of carousels. The circle of life. 

They Grow Up So Fast

Children do, of course. But so do goslings! I've been watching this year's Lake Anne spring babies toddle into semi-maturity for the last few weeks. A few weeks ago, this pair struggled to follow their mom and dad down to the water, slipping and sliding much of the way.  No helicopter parents these.

By now, the spring babies have grown into gangly teenagers who would rather die than acknowledge their 'rents. Notice the nonchalant way they graze and lag behind. You can almost imagine them grumbling, "Mom, puhleeeeeze! Don't you have something else to do?"

Such is life. And such is parenthood ... throughout the animal kingdom.

(Top photo: Sally Carter)

Mountain Laurel

The mountain laurel was blooming, and I had to see it. I remember stumbling on it during the pandemic during a one-day getaway that was the most time I'd spent away from home in months.

Yesterday, well clear of lockdowns and one week further into June, the blossoms were heavy on their glossy green stems. Flowering shrubs lined one section of trail, making a passageway of poesies. 

Walking through it, I felt like those blossoms were blessing me, which I guess, in their own way, they were. 

Protecting Place

As I'm drawn further into the life of a town where I don't officially live, I think about what I owe Reston. Though I can't swim in its pools or kayak on its lakes, I do walk its trails and enjoy its ambiance without paying its fees.

There's nothing illegal or immoral about this, but the film I just watched discusses those who enjoy Reston's amenities without buying into its program. We live less than a mile from Reston but aren't within its strict property boundaries. Still, I worship at a Reston church, donate staples to a Reston food pantry, and pay the higher, nonresident fee for a Reston yoga class. I'd like to do more. 

As I figure out how to do this, I think about what people owe place, the responsibilities that come with residency. It's a topic I ponder often, this idea of stewardship, of protecting what is priceless. What can be more precious than hearth, home and habitat? And what can be more natural than wanting to protect them?

Slipping Into History

Today is the 80th anniversary of the Allied landing on the beaches of Normandy. It is also "the moment when D-Day will slip almost entirely from memory into history," says Garrett M. Graff, author of When the Sea Came Alive: An Oral History of D-Day, a 19-hour audiobook.

My knowledge of World War II is also from oral history — Dad's stories about the 35 missions he flew in 1944, including air support on D-Day. He always insisted that his efforts were nothing compared with soldiers on the ground. 

"I don't think the American people appreciate what some of those men did," he told a newspaper reporter in 2009. "Those guys, they deserve all the honors." I think Dad was too modest; being crammed into the tail gunner's seat of a B-17 bomber carried enormous risks and responsibilities. 

Dad was one of the lucky ones. He survived to return, marry, have four children and die peacefully at the age of 90. Like him, most of the boys who stormed the beaches (or flew above them) are now under the ground. As D-Day slips into history, it's up to us to keep it alive. 

(Dad poses beside a B-17 bomber at his air base in Horham, England in 1944.)

Lovely, Dark and Deep

It's less than three weeks till summer solstice. By 5 a.m. the first birds are singing, and darkness doesn't fall till almost 9 p.m. At this time of year, light is our constant companion. 

Perhaps that's why the woods appeal. They are, to quote Robert Frost, "lovely, dark and deep." Though he described a winter landscape, mine is a summery one: oaks, maples and sycamore in full leaf, the path that winds through them sheltered and shady.

What mysteries lie down these trails? What refreshment will they bring? Will the woods be cooler than the street? These are questions I want to answer — and will. 

Finding Hildasay

People who know me know I like to read, and sometimes they give me a book they think I'll like. Finding Hildasay is one of those. It's the story of a veteran from the United Kingdom who decided to walk the entire UK coastline. 

I've walked a few feet of the UK coastline (!), and books about walking are a sub-genre I enjoy, so it's no wonder that this volume found its way into my hands.

I'm so glad it did. Christian Lewis took off on his journey with £10 to his name. He foraged for food, survived 70-mile-an-hour winds, and never gave up on his quest. Hildasay is the Shetland island where he spent three months during the pandemic lockdown. It was where he finally had the time to reflect upon what he had achieved: the depression he had beaten, the money he had raised for a veterans' charity, the  sense of purpose he had found.

The book stops mid-journey, so I wondered what was up. Could there be a sequel? Well yes there is. I have a feeling I'll be reading it soon.

(The coastline of the Orkney Islands, as close to Hildasay as I've traveled.)

Busy, Busy

It's mulching season. Actually, it may be past mulching season, though I suppose it's still mulching season somewhere, especially if you still have mulch to spread. 

Speaking of that, as I walk through the neighborhood, I spy much mulch. There are piles of it in driveways, waiting to be shoveled and carted to the backyard, and bags of it strategically placed under trees or beside garden beds. 

I've decided that having an array of mulch bags deposited around the property is the perfect way to look busy. It's proof positive that mulching may occur in the future if it hasn't already. 

When we first moved to this tidy suburban neighborhood, I had a thing about mulch. It seemed the epitome of uptight lawn care. But through the years I've come to understand its value: the moisture it keeps in, the weeds it keeps out. If nothing else, it lets neighbors know we care. 

From the Top

It's the Feast of Corpus Christi, and in Seville, Spain, a procession of statues and icons on floats is — or, given the time difference, already has — snaked its way down the narrow streets of that wondrous city.

I like to think about the places I've been, and this is the day I think about Seville, the air scented with orange blossoms, temperatures near scalding (I almost passed out at the Alcazar), the warren of streets around the cathedral. 

We walked to the top of the Giralda, or bell tower, where the city was spread at our feet. It was two years ago. It could have been yesterday.