Smooth Re-entry

Our lake week is over, and what a wonderful week it was. So many laughs and memories. I wouldn't trade them for anything. 

But the drive home meant the usual traffic, and by the time we reached the house it was hot and sticky, a typical 2024 summer day, heat index well into the 90s.

And then we stepped inside.The house was spic-and-span, a cool 77 degrees, classical music on the radio, courtesy of our friend and house-sitter. The parakeets were chirping. There was even some food in the fridge. It was the smoothest re-entry I've had in years. 

(Unpacking is always easier than packing. Above: a fraction of the stuff I took along.)

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.

Our Own World Again

I woke before dawn this morning, early enough to see the yard emerge from darkness, early enough to hear the first birds calling. 

Speaking of birds, the day after we arrived home, I spied a male cardinal at the feeder. A common occurrence. But I saw him with new eyes. 

Do they have cardinals in Madeira or mainland Portugal? I saw none. So I imagined seeing a cardinal for the first time, resplendent in his red coat. Gleaming red coat at this time of year. 

Here is a gorgeous bird I take for granted, and I'm seeing him as if for the first time. Isn't that what we hope travel will give us, the ability to see our own world again — only with fresh eyes?

(Turns out, I don't have many good cardinal photos. I need to remedy that.)

Tied in Knots

I've just spend a considerable chunk of time watching crochet tutorials on Youtube. These are usually hosted by cheery British ladies with plump fingers and colorful yarns. They pronounce crochet with the accent on the first syllable. I bet they would make a good cup of tea.

But they did not ease the frustration that was building as I once again had trouble starting my project. I'm a quick crocheter once I get past the first few rows. But those first few rows give me fits every time. This go-around I decided to understand what I was doing rather than just bumble along. 

I stopped and started half a dozen times. I worked on my slip knot. But I was determined to keep doing it until I mastered this. I have no idea whether this back-to-basics approach will benefit the finished product. All I know is that I was tied in knots for a while... but I'm untangled now. 

In Person

It's been four years since a virus from China began to enter our consciousness, slowly at first (it was so far away!) but eventually spreading around the world and taking over our lives.

Last night I hosted book group at my house, the first in-person meeting here since 2019. It felt good to sit in each other's presence, to laugh and talk and drink tea, to plan for the future. The four years we spent on Zoom were good in their own way, but I'm glad we're back in person. 

Four years have brought other changes. In the past, I would rush home from work to vacuum, dust and bake, barely finishing the prep before the first guest knocked on the door.  Tonight's do was different. I had time to wash out the delicate Belleek sugar bowl and cream pitcher, to arrange squares of dark chocolate on a plate in honor of the book we discussed — Bittersweet.  I even had a chance to look over the notes I'd taken on the book. 

Sometimes I miss the hectic life I used to lead. And sometimes (less often) I miss Zoom. But I didn't miss either of them last night.

(In person in a bookstore — with a friend, of course.)

Beauty and Bane

December dawns gray and cold. A new month. I began the last one in an old house by the sea. I begin this one in the two-story suburban home I've lived in for decades. A garbage truck trundles by as I write. It's the third garbage truck I've heard this morning.

Ah, the suburbs! The beauty and the bane of them. I love the trees and solitude. I deplore the sameness and isolation.

But that's an old story. The new story is this: Here I am. 

Give a Little Whistle

At home it announces itself with a steady crescendo of gurgles and hisses and a click when the water has boiled. Almost foolproof.

At Fort Worden, I heated water the old-fashioned way. I filled the pot, flipped the top down and waited for the whistle. Ingenious ... but not foolproof. For instance, you could (and I did) forget to close the contraption. I quickly learned — no top, no whistle.

You could also (theoretically) leave the kettle on until the water vaporized and the pot was singed. But for that you would have to ignore the whistle, which is mighty difficult to do. 

I'm glad to be back with my electric teakettle. But the whistling version is fun, too ... maybe the original smart appliance? 

Eastward

The question is, would you know it if you didn't know it, know that here in Seattle you're near the western edge of this wide continent?

I always think I can tell — something in the quality of the light or the casualness of the architecture or the philosophies of the people. 

But it's probably just what I overlay on the place, based on visits and attitudes (dreams) about the West Coast I've had since I was as a kid. 

This afternoon I fly home, take the eastward journey, which is often faster. It's the prevailing westerlies that make it so, but today I think it will be the magnet of home pulling me back where I belong.

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.)

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)

Home, for a Minute

Today is the slender filling of home in a very large travel sandwich. Tomorrow we leave for three weeks in Scotland. Was this trip planned by a madwoman? Yes, of course, and that madwoman would be me. 

So yesterday and today it's a flurry of laundry and repacking, of settling in but not settling down, of checking lists and paring them to a sliver of their former selves. 

Tomorrow evening we take off for a country I visited once decades ago and found much to admire: castles and lochs and vistas galore. 

But before that, the dust will be flying. 

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. 

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. 

Night Flight

We left Seattle for Virginia at an hour I consider normal for overseas flights, that is, almost midnight. But then we had almost as far to go, give or take a few hundred miles

Instead of crossing an ocean, we traversed a continent. In the dark of night we flew over cities and villages, swamps and high deserts. In a darkened cabin, we covered the distance of this broad land. 

And now, after a few hours of catch-up sleep, I'm sitting where I so often do, at a desk overlooking a green yard, my slice of this planet: home. 

The Full Fridge

Long ago, when I was writing a magazine article about what parents could do to promote family happiness, I remember being surprised at the additional point my editor suggested adding. It's good to keep the refrigerator stocked with good food, she said.

I'd been interviewing experts about family self-esteem and other heady topics, forgetting that all the good feelings in the world aren't much help unless there's a healthy body to receive them. 

Our refrigerator serves only two people now, so there's a limit to how stocked it can be. But a couple of recent holidays plus entertaining out-of-town family last weekend means it's been fuller than it usually is. And yes, that is happy-making ... but only because it means I won't have to cook this week. 

(No open-fridge photos this morning, but here's one of a salad that came out of it.)

For Love of Place

On this earth day I'm thinking about the places I love best on this planet: my home in Virginia, starting with the house and yard and moving beyond to woodland paths and trails, the spokes of a wheel of caring.

My hometown of Lexington, Kentucky, with its old brick homes and its new distillery district; with its rolling grasslands, shaggy limestone cliffs, white fences and horse farms.

Other places I have lived and loved: New York City, which inspired and thrilled me in my youth and revives me still. Chicago, which I heard about all my young life and where I went to college.  Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas, with its friendly people and its views that go on forever. And Groton, Massachusetts, small town extraordinaire, where I gave birth to our first child. 

On Earth Day we honor this, our only planet, and think about ways to protect and promote its health and longterm viability. But all this protection and promotion starts with love. It's love that emboldens us, that helps us make the tough choices, do the hard things. Unless we truly care about the earth, what incentive do we have to safeguard it?   

(Above: Joe Pye weed blooms in a Kentucky meadow on a perfect August morning, 2021.)

Megalopolis!

Over the weekend, a family birthday party took me to Towson, Maryland. It dawned on me as I was driving that my niece, her husband and their now one-year-old daughter live in the same metropolitan area that I do. I can get in my little gray car and drive for an hour and a half and never leave home.

It sure feels like leaving home, though. Four expressways are involved: the Dulles Toll Road, the Capital Beltway, I-95 and I-695 (the Baltimore Beltway). And the two places have quite a different look and feel. 

The megalopolis is a strange creature, a many-bellied beast of a term. Coined in the middle of the last century, it means two or more adjacent metropolitan areas that share enough transport, economy, resources and ecologies to blur their boundaries and complete a continuous urban area. I see that megalopolis is an outdated term. It's now megaregion, according to the America 2050 Initiative. 

Given that most humans identify with a house, a block, a town at most, I think we're in dangerous territory here. Let the geographers have their fun, but as far as I'm concerned I definitely left home on Saturday.

(The Northeast Megaregion at night. Courtesy Wikipedia, which also served as source for some of the information in this post.)

Many Worlds

Yesterday there was a drive and some errands that reminded me how many worlds exist inside this one world we call home. 

There was a body shop with country music blaring and an American flag flying and a mechanic named JJ who pronounced the bill — "that will be nine thousand dollars" — before grinning and saying he was just kidding. 

There was a hole-in-the-wall eatery with goat meat and fou-fou and a woman wearing a colorful West African print in bright yellow. 

And in between these places were parkways of green, the home of our first president, and the Potomac River flashing bright outside the car window, its bridges arching gracefully over the waves.

It's a big world out there. How good it is to be reminded of it. 

Suitcase at Rest

I'm a bit compulsive about unpacking. Usually within hours of arriving home I've emptied my suitcase and filled the laundry hamper. This trip was no exception. It's not that I want to move on; it's the opposite. I want to see what I've collected. 

On this trip there were ceramic tiles and carved olive wood. There were books and teas and a box of six pasteis de nata, the national pastry of Portugal, bought from a chaotic coffee counter in the Lisbon airport. 

But mostly, I return with memories, impressions, ideas. It was my first trip to the continent since 2010, and I'd forgotten how much I love the way Europeans live, the scale of their houses and streets, the pace of life that includes time for a coffee break, which, given the size of Portuguese coffee cups, doesn't take long.  The way they live with less in one way (smaller cars, tighter spaces) but more in others (an appreciation for beauty and the past).  

My suitcase is empty. My mind is full.