Yesterday it was my turn to go out in the kayak, to paddle across the lake and explore the creek we heard about from longtime residents.
Many streams feed the lake, but this is the first time we had a chance to explore one of them. The creek was a world apart, a ferny, reedy paradise where herons feed and turtles nest (not that I saw either of these creatures).
But I did feel the restorative calm of an alternative universe, a kingdom of water.
Yesterday’s paddle put the creek in Deep Creek Lake.
The low clouds have blown away and in their wake comes a picture-perfect mountain beach day: blue skies, low humidity, a gentle breeze.
The beach was still a bit chilly this morning, so I only waded, but the kids jumped in full tilt, as they always do. The adults observed from the sidelines, or entered the water when necessary to supervise. But otherwise, it was a children’s world.
After their swim the kiddos dug and raked and patted — and built what must have been sand castles to them.
Into every lake morning some donuts must fall. Today was the morning here. Not just traditional glazed and chocolate but all sorts of flavors and toppings, with glazes of caramel or cinnamon plus sprinkles, M&Ms and drizzled icing.
There was s’mores donut, a Samoa donut (named for the Girl Scout cookie), and a salted caramel number (my fave). There was chocolate milk and strawberry milk. There was no coffee. We went somewhere else for that.
It’s best to eat these donuts with a knife and fork, though it’s hard to avoid using your hands. Which meant we had plenty of sticky fingers by the end.
These donuts are cheaper by the dozen. I meant to take a photo of the dozen we purchased, but by the time I reached them, these were the only two left.
Often our family lake trip coincides with Claire’s birthday. It does this year. How special to be with a daughter not just for an hour or two but for the whole day of her birth.
I’m not sure exactly what’s on the agenda, though a trip to the indoor pool seems likely since it’s raining. But I could also see a day of cozy movie-viewing and fudge-making. We’ll have to see.
Meanwhile, I’m up early to reflect on the bounty — and dodge the chaos.
(Photo from a sunny day at the lake beach last year.)
We’re back at Deep Creek Lake, the sixth year in a row we’ve come here as a family. This year’s rental house is in a different location. It’s the replica of the familiar cabin we’ve booked the last four years but situated closer to the lake.
I’m getting used to this new venue, to how the light falls in the morning, to the waves in the lake. Will there be enough calm water to kayak? We’re looking into it.
We didn’t pull off the first swim we attempted (at a smaller, more kid-friendly lake) due to an e-coli outbreak. The bugs are everywhere these days, it seems. But we will avoid that lake (along with iceberg lettuce) and make the best of it. An ironic statement, of course, because as you can see from the photo above that’s not hard to do around here.
“We have magic to do, just for you. We have miracle plays to play.”
From the moment we stepped into Signature’s theater-in-the-round with its shiny silver disc of a stage, I knew we were entering another world. I was holding my breath. I’ve loved the music of “Pippin” for decades. Could this revival possibly measure up?
I’m happy to report that it did! The singing, dancing, glitter, camp — here it was in the flesh, the musical from which the music derived. I learned that Pippin belts out “Morning Glow” right after he kills his father, Charlemagne; that “Spread a Little Sunshine” is sung by the devious stepmother Fastrada; and that Catherine, whose lilting soprano is perfect for “Kind of Woman,” is a widow with a young son.
The music I’ve loved for years became embodied last night, rich in color, drama, irony. From now on, when I listen to “Pippin” I’ll see the arched eyebrows and knowing glance of the Leading Player — or the grandmother stripping off her old-lady clothes to reveal a burlesque outfit underneath.
I’ll remember again what I too often forget: that we need stories, illusion — and magic — almost as much as food and drink and sleep.
It happened on an ordinary walk, and it happened twice, since this ordinary walk was on a circular trail, where you run into people more than once if you’re strolling in opposite directions.
I’m glad it happened twice, though, because the first time I didn’t believe my eyes. By the second time, I was sure. A fellow walker, a man about my age, smiled and tipped his hat as we passed.
I’ve written before about how walkers acknowledge each other. I don’t expect much, am happy if I get a nod or wave. I never expected a tip of the hat. Such behavior harkens back to an earlier age, when gentlemen wore fedoras and opened doors for ladies.
Did the hat-tipper similarly acknowledge male walkers? I have no answer to that question. But I do know how nice it felt to be the recipient of a such a courtesy. It was a congenial gesture; it made me smile all the way back to the parking lot.
(President Calvin Coolidge tips his hat. Photo: Wikimedia Commons)
As you might expect from a walker in the suburbs, I’m not big on driving. I do it, of course, because I have to — but I do it almost exclusively with a manual-transmission sedan. I shift up, I shift down. I lean into corners and feel the road. Piloting a stick shift has made driving as fun as it can be, almost as much fun as walking.
I did not come to this skill easily. I was an automatic transmission girl until I married into a stick-shift-car family and painstakingly learned to handle a clutch. With no automatic to fall back on, I had no choice. But it wasn’t easy, especially after living for 10 years in cities where I relied solely on public transportation.
For decades now I’ve mostly driven a manual, and loved doing it. I mourned our old stick-shift when it finally bit the dust. The 25-year-old Saab that we’re keeping alive by dint of a mechanic named Louis and way too much money may be the last manual I’ll ever drive.
A recent Washington Post article reveals that stick-shift automobiles account for only 0.6 percent of the American auto market now compared with more than 34.6 percent in 1980. Manufacturers are discontinuing their stick-shift models. Electric vehicles don’t require a manual transmission. And then there’s the comfort factor. As one auto industry expert opined, “The more the car becomes your couch, the less you’re going to want to shift your gears.”
For me, a car is a tool, not a couch. It’s a necessary item. And if I have to own one, I’d like it to be one that mimics walking with all its stops and starts and adventures.
The man on the podium was wiry and intense, just as I remembered him from high school. “We’re going to take this piece apart and put it back together again,” said Dr. Joseph Ceo, then 85, stabbing the air with his baton. I trembled, remembering past musical humiliations. I hadn’t played the string bass in decades, but once I heard that alumni were invited to join the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra anniversary concert in 2018, I knew I had to be part of it.
Playing in an orchestra had made adolescence bearable. It introduced me to a group of people whose idea of a good time was listening to Wagner’s Liebestod on a Saturday night. It left me in love not just with music but with music-making. Yes, I lived 500 miles away, and my only symphonic experience since high school was air-conducting in the car, but these were trifles. I rented a string bass and got to work.
Though Dr. Ceo had left the orchestra and moved away shortly after we graduated, none of us had forgotten him. He had treated us like musicians, not kids, and we had performed well for him, many of us going on to conservatories and musical careers.
I was not one of them. So why was I standing here with a string bass I could barely hold up, preparing to play the finale of Stravinsky’s “Firebird”? Because I knew that if Dr. Ceo was part of it, I wanted to be, too.
The concert that weekend was everything I remembered from the old days. The fun, the tension, the pit in the stomach. But there was something else, too: the joy of making music together. As soon as I felt it, I knew the months of practice had been worth it.
As we belted out the last bars of the piece, the timpani pounded behind me and I felt its vibration travel through the floor boards and into my spine, where it left a tingle. We had taken the music apart and put it back together again. In fact, life had taken us apart and put us back together again — and we were all richer because of it.
Thank you, Dr. Ceo. Rest in peace.
(Dr. Ceo stands in the back row of this photo, second from left.)
First, the anxious tedium only an airport can supply, followed by passage on the sleek silver bird. And then, in what seems the blink of an eye, a return to normal life. Leaving behind the deep relaxation of beach time, of staring up at palm trees, impossibly slim, impossibly tall, a profusion of growth and greenery.
Then, there is finding the place I live to be new again. Even the old familiar walk, the up-and-back of the neighborhood thoroughfare, seems shiny and bright.
It is full-bore summer here. The night is rich with insect sounds, the mornings full of crows cawing and blue jays calling. Another trip is coming in a few days, a family vacation full of little people. There is plenty to do. But now, for these last morning hours, I want to pause and let it all sink in.
