Dark Walk

Dark Walk

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Halloween is more than two weeks away, but it felt quite present when I took a walk after dark the other night.

I left in a brisk wind, wearing light clothes and a head lamp. I was pretty sure cars would see me and my Cyclops eye. What I wasn’t counting on were all the little eyes staring back at me. They were from a deer family, perhaps a half dozen blithely munching my neighbor’s trees.

The walk only got weirder. I heard shrieks and giggles from the other end of the block. Flashlight tag, perhaps? Or a preview of coming attractions?

Many houses have dressed up for the season, with skeleton-head images superimposed on their walls, orange blinking lights and blow-up monsters in their front yards.

Add to this a wild wind stirring the leaves and sending twigs and small branches earthward, and … let’s just say I was glad to get home.

A High Wind

A High Wind

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A high wind has sprung up on this day that used to be known as Columbus Day but is now also known as Indigenous People’s Day. It started yesterday, this wind, and though it’s stirring the leaves that have already fallen from the poplar and the witch hazel, it isn’t, as far as I know, leading to any rain.

When the big gusts come, they blow aside the bamboo that now nearly obscures my view of the black gum tree. Black gum leaves can put on quite a show in late October, so I’m happy for this glimpse of them, for their phosphorescence and their beauty.

Mostly I’m thinking about this country, on this day three weeks and a day away from a contentious election. I’m thinking about how divided we are, a division that is implied in the two names we have for this day.

Who owns this country? It’s a question I hope we never stop asking.

Twenty Years

Twenty Years

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It’s been two decades since I left the full-time-freelance life and took an editorial job on a magazine staff. I’ve been thinking this morning of how decisions ripple outward into time and space, how they define us in ways we might never fully understand.

The job I took in October, 2004, was a creative boost. Suddenly, I was writing articles about theology and science and history. I felt like I’d gone back to school, and in a way I had. I was working for a university publication. I continued in that vein (though at another university) for a dozen years before joining a nonprofit development firm that sent me around the world to report on its projects.

Each job built on the one that came before. Had I not taken the first, I wouldn’t have taken the second, or the third.

Now, I’m a freelancer again, and I’m a student for real, with more deadlines. I’ve come full circle, back to a place that feels comfortable and right. But these other lives are all around me, in the friends I’ve made, the skills I’ve learned, the “material” I’ve stored. It’s good to have a day when I can reflect on the decisions themselves, on how they worked their magic, even when I thought they might not.

(Always trying to see the forest through the trees.)

The Straightaway

The Straightaway

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Though I love a path that curves and winds its way through the woods, I’m also fond of a good straightaway.

Which is what I found myself on yesterday. A trail that branches off another, well-traveled one, a connector route, you might say. And I was struck with its clean lines and lack of mystery, with its uncomplicated beauty.

A straightaway is not a “straight and narrow,” with its whiff of boring respectability. A straightaway is redolent of race tracks and final surges to victory. It’s about power and clarity.

Sometimes that’s all you want in a trail, to see it clear from beginning to end, to know what you have in front of you.

Hitting Home

Hitting Home

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The monster storm known as Milton made landfall last night about 9:30 p.m. It came ashore on the very same Florida beach I’ve been escaping to for more than a decade, Siesta Key.

A barrier island known for its sugar-white sand and relaxed village vibe, Siesta Key is a place I’ve come to know and love. The thought of it pummeled by 120-mile-an-hour winds and submerged under 10 feet of storm surge is making my stomach turn.

It’s too early yet to tell the extent of the damage. I’m hoping it’s minimal, but I’m afraid it’s not. In other words, Florida is still on my mind.

(A Siesta Key evening, 2023)

Florida on My Mind

Florida on My Mind

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I’m thinking today not just of how beautiful it is — though it is certainly that — but of how low-lying, how houses and docks cluster along the shoreline and canals, how the place is threaded through with water.

Soon, the winds will blow, the seas will rise, the rain will fall. People are doing everything they can to prepare for the monster Milton, but how can any place cope well with storm surges of 10 feet or higher?

My trips to the west coast of Florida through the years have shown me how intimately people can live with water, how close to it they want to be, how calming they find its presence.

Now the presence has become a menace.

Dead Crickets Society

Dead Crickets Society

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I’m alone for a few days, which means the house is far too tidy and I’m the only one on bug patrol. Given that these are the first crisp days of autumn, wild creatures are seeking a comfy place to spend the winter, and there is brisk cricket traffic in here.

I have nothing against crickets, as long as they know their place, which is outside. But when they — especially the branch of the family known as cave crickets or sprikets, with their hefty bodies and long, spidery legs — hop into the house, they need to be dispatched quickly.

I know women whose husbands have a soft spot for bugs and will not kill them. This is not my situation. If I run into a spriket on the kitchen floor, I have eradication backup.

But for the next few days, I’m on my own. I have pressed heavy books into service — yearbooks, cookbooks, whatever is hefty and on hand. Since the critters hop toward whatever is frightening them, I generally just throw the book at them. So far, it’s Anne 2, Sprikets 0. I hope my winning streak continues.

(No spriket photos here!)

‘Telling it Slant’

‘Telling it Slant’

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For my birthday, my daughter Claire gave me a subscription to Storyworth. This is a program that encourages you to tell your life story by sending you an email prompt every week. Mine arrives on Monday mornings.

Sometimes I set the prompt aside to answer later, but usually I respond right away. This may not be the most orthodox way to tell one’s life story, but maybe it’s the best way. Rather than sitting down to a blank page and an awesome responsibility, this is “telling it slant,” in the words of Emily Dickinson and one of my favorite books about writing. “To tell the truth, yes, but to become more than a mere transcriber of life’s factual experiences,” say authors Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola.

My interpretation of “telling it slant” here also implies a slight off-handedness. I’ve long since learned the persuasiveness of the little editor on my shoulder; to subvert it is one of the reasons I started this blog. Sometimes the best way to avoid it is to dash something off, to meet a deadline. You can refine the piece later, but first just put some words on the page.

So, at least for now, that’s how I’m telling my life story.

Old-Fashioned

Old-Fashioned

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On Friday, I ended up in an old-fashioned hardware store in a tony neighborhood closer to the city. I was there only as a browser, but even I, who can barely tell a Phillip’s head from a hex head, was asked if I could be helped a half-dozen times.

Moseying my way through the narrow aisles I found some fun non-hardware-store kinds of items, and even bought a couple of them, a heavy aluminum jellyroll pan and a roll of cellophane tape.

It was only after I saw the price tags on these items that it hit me. Old-fashioned customer service is comforting. You feel important. You feel seen. And more to the point, you might actually find what you’re looking for.

But it doesn’t come cheap. These days, old-fashioned service is mostly for the well-heeled. Once upon a time, though, it was for all of us.

A Prayer for Asheville

A Prayer for Asheville

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As the death toll mounts in North Carolina, I think about the beauty of the place and the terror of the storm. Most of all, I think about the lives lost. More than 100 already confirmed dead; 200 still missing.

We visited Asheville almost two years ago. It was a quick trip sandwiched in between obligations. It was January, and a cold rain fell one of the three days we were there. But despite the weather and the haste, I loved the place: its mountain beauty, its funky vibe.

Now, residents are searching for survivors, digging out homes, queueing for water. At this moment, Asheville is not a resort town; it’s a crisis zone. My heart goes out to all those in Western North Carolina. May you find relief soon.

Sunset in Asheville, January 9, 2023