Longest Days

Longest Days

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Solstice arrived yesterday in the wee hours, but I slept through the meteorological moment. Today I woke at early light and was walking before my eyes were fully open.

At winter solstice we rejoice because days grow longer. At summer solstice it’s better to forget how quickly it will be winter solstice again. Instead, to remember how many long days we still have. Summer twilights linger. Summer dawns, too.

The season is just coming into its own. We have more day lily buds than day lilies.

There are the longest days. I plan to savor them.

Juneteenth

Juneteenth

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The grandchildren have departed, leaving behind a ball, barrette and undies. That’s nothing compared with some of the things that we’ve found as soon as the vans leave the driveway: bottles and diapers and pacifiers. Special cups that must be retrieved before the next school day. Much-loved blankies.

Today’s get-together fell into place organically. It’s not only June but Juneteenth, which means days off for our brood. The group lunch wasn’t planned but seemed to make sense. Babies tag-napped upstairs, the teenager worked the trampoline so the littlest ones weren’t hurt, and the adults had a few minutes to chat among themselves.

I write after watching the U.S. beat Australia 2-0 and a guaranteed advance to the next round of the World Cup. A steady breeze makes for pleasant company, as leaves wag in the wind and a lovely day morphs into evening.

(Above: another perfect June day, this one last year in Groton, Massachusetts.)

The Nod

The Nod

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Walkers are busy. They have paths to travel, woods to explore, miles to rack up. Which means that most of the time (unless there’s a fox on a rock in the stream) they don’t have time to stop and chat, or even the breath to say hello. Maybe this is why they’ve perfected the nod.

Sometimes it’s just a dip of the chin. Other times the whole head may be involved, and a smile may peek out. Occasionally, I’ll get a wave, thumbs up or peace sign.

I appreciate the nonverbal communication of walkers on the trail. It’s an acknowledgement that another human is passing by — proof that, although many of us walk solo because we relish the time alone, we realize that others are doing the same. And in that case, it’s best not to disturb but to just … give a nod.

A Firefly Farewell

A Firefly Farewell

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Our guest from Paris leaves tonight. During his stay he’s seen deer, squirrels, chipmunks, cardinals, jays, bluebirds, hummingbirds and the hawk I wrote about yesterday. Only the fox has been elusive.

But last night, as we dined on the deck, came the final performance. Deep in the summer grass, the fireflies emerged, blinking their messages of love and longing.

“Here I am,” they said, as they flitted through their mating dance. “Over here.” Slowly moving up from ground to sky, the bugs flashed in the darkness. Their pinpoints of light made the backyard seem a fairyland.

I doubt we’ll convince this Parisian that it’s better to live in the suburbs. He’s ridden into the city on Metro enough to know the length and the hassle of the ride. But I hope we’ve represented ourselves well. It’s not the only way to live — a fact that is painfully obvious to me every time we travel — but it has its pleasures.

(No firefly photos, I’m afraid. This is a shot of the Mekong River in Cambodia from a work trip in 2019.)

Like a Hawk

Like a Hawk

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The hawk looks contemplative here, as if he’s pondering the world and his place in it. But in truth he’s looking for dinner. He’s watching his prey … like a hawk.

He showed up several times last night as we supped on the deck, making me wonder for a moment if he was sizing us up, too, but realized we were too big and tough.

The raptor was here a couple of nights ago, also, perching on the deck railing and on top of the rain gauge, as he does here. I imagine he’s keeping his eye on the bird feeder. There’s a resident chipmunk this summer, too — or at least there was.

Whenever I see hawks now, I think of the close encounter I had with one a couple of years ago, how the parakeets barely escaped his talons, how they might have perished had I not been there. The parakeets stay inside now. The world is too wild for them.

But not too wild for me. How privileged we were last evening to spend long minutes gazing at this guy.

Practically Perfect

Practically Perfect

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I had another post idea for today, but I hadn’t finished it before I left for an early morning appointment. Now back home, I have a different idea, a riff on this mid-June, almost mid-summer, practically-perfect-in-every-way day.

Start with the 75-degree temperature, the ample sunlight and the breeze, which is just enough to stir the poplar leaves. Add in the smell of grass from a new-mown lawn and the song of wrens and robins.

Since I was out early, I worked in a walk-and-talk with a friend and her sweet doggie. We ended with chai lattes at a neighborhood cafe.

Practically perfect or completely so? Now that I think of it, maybe the latter.

A Word on Walkability

A Word on Walkability

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As my thesis year approaches, I find myself thinking about sense of place, my thesis topic. It’s an interest in place that inspired this blog and continues to generate material — not only from walking through the suburbs but from reflecting on them, too.

The last two weeks we’ve been hosting a visitor from Paris, someone used to walking in a city, running errands on foot, relying chiefly on public transportation. He enjoys the green abundance of our corner of the world and appreciates our space, but he misses the walkability to which he’s accustomed.

In another, similar, vein, I recently lunched with a young acquaintance who decided to stay put in a condo rather than buy a house because she loves living in a walkable community. She would rather have less space and more mobility. My oldest daughter and her family have made a similar decision.

I see in this the small but important vanguard of a movement to value more than just space: to appreciate density and walkability — and be willing to sacrifice for them, too.

“We Take Venmo”

“We Take Venmo”

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School ends here next week but early releases, field days and test days mean that the neighborhood already has a summer-vacation vibe.

Exhibit A is the first lemonade stand of the season, featuring an enterprising bunch of school-aged kids. Its ringleader waves a sign half as big as he is, and practically flags down the cars on the street. The other day I saw him trying to stop a school bus.

When I drove by on my way to walk Monday, I slowed the sedan, and realized I’d left my wallet at home.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t have any money.”

“No problem,” he said. “We take Venmo.”

Such is life in the elementary-school fast lane. I can’t wait to see what summer has in store.

(Another sign of summer.)

Mendelssohn in the Morning

Mendelssohn in the Morning

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It’s not exactly early, but I’ve been up for a while, up and out as a matter of fact. Back home now and reveling in the Mendelssohn Piano Trio Number One playing on the radio.

When I think about Mendelssohn I wonder why it took me so long to admire his music. When I was young, he was the Overture to Midsummer’s Nights Dream and the violin concerto. That’s about it.

Then I discovered his Italian Symphony … and his Octet … and his piano trios and other chamber music. The near-manic energy, the gorgeous melodies. Now Mendelssohn is one of my faves.

The lyrical second movement of the piano trio has come and gone, as well as the brief and memorable scherzo. The finale is playing now, the allegro, as the piano, violin and cello show off for each other. It’s energetic music; it puts a skip in my step.

Mendelssohn in the morning. It’s the way to go.

(The first page of Mendelssohn’s Octet, courtesy Wikipedia)

The Word on the Trail

The Word on the Trail

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The word on the trail yesterday was the fox napping on a big, flat-topped rock in the middle of the stream. He was having a lazy day, his tail hanging almost into the water.

I heard about this from a fellow walker: “Did you see the fox?” she asked, as her small, black, unleashed dog ambled beside her. “He’s sunning himself in the creek.”

This isn’t the only animal sighting I’ve heard about from a fellow walker. I’ve been tipped off to deer and birds, too.

Usually, we trail-walkers acknowledge each other with a nod, smile or wave, seldom exchanging words. But a fox on a rock in the stream — that’s worth a quick conversation.

(Alas, no pictures of the critter. I was walking without phone or camera.)