A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday’s walk was through the woods with two young hikers, ages 6 and 4. They could almost match their grandparents’ strides but they wanted to stop a lot, especially by the creek.

Our first stream bed foray was early on, when they begged to jump down and see the water. We complied, and found it dry enough to follow the bed for a few paces, dodging the few wet patches. We noted the bedrock and the roots of a giant oak, now exposed by erosion.

After finding a convenient way up to dry ground, we tramped along the path, looking for deer, which were strangely absent — probably at our house nibbling ground cover. The children waved their sticks and chatted so loudly that I’m sure all the forest animals were hiding, having heard us coming a mile away.

Our second dip down the creek’s bank came after we discovered a new plank bridge and tap-danced on it. This was a larger tributary, with plenty of water for stirring and even a sandy bottom, near where tadpoles swim in spring.

When we made the turn for home, their grandfather and I were more grateful than they were. Their energy seems unlimited, ours is not.

I can’t remember when it dawned on me that most people named Anne are not spring chickens. For a while “Anne” seemed to be the air I breathed. My grandmother was Ann — without an e, a travesty my mother corrected when she named me — and classmates (and their mothers) were also named Anne. It also made a handy middle name.

When I shared an apartment after college, it was with my friend Anne. We lived on the second floor of a house in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. Below us lived another Ann, who said she didn’t need an “e” in her name. We pretended to be shocked by that, but of course did not believe her for a second. Every Anne needed an “e,” as far as we were concerned.

Funny … I didn’t intend this post to be about Annes, only about Lake Anne, which I walked around yesterday. It’s named for Reston founder Robert E. Simon’s then wife, Anne Wertheim Simon. She was a writer who penned articles for McCall’s, where I was an editor, and her sister was historian and author Barbara Tuchman.

Next time I walk around Lake Anne, I’ll be thinking about Anne Simon, the namesake of this charming body of water.

The light is fading but it’s primo walking weather. I’ve stepped out the last couple of days into low-humidity afternoons with the kind of blue skies that throw anything in front of them — roofs, tree tops, telephone poles — into high relief.

We have scant fall color here but the crispy, brown leaves that collect along the sides of the trail make the most delicious crunching sound when I tromp over them.

Mornings have been cool enough (the 40s!) that I’ve postponed outdoor activities till later in the day, which gives me time for “brain work” early. I’ve needed it.

And speaking of that, let the brain work proceed ….

(Footbridge in a brown wood.)