Throwing the Book at It

Throwing the Book at It

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It’s just another day on the suburban frontier: wake up, make tea, empty the dishwasher, kill a spriget.

A spriget is my family’s name for a cave cricket, the spidery, humpbacked creature that gives me the creeps every time I spot one.

Truth to tell, when I do see one, I generally call for help. But when help is unavailable I throw a book at it. Such was the case this morning when I spotted one in the kitchen (cheeky devil, they usually stay in the basement).

What book should I sacrifice? I found a whole foods cookbook I don’t think I’ve ever used, a thick paperback.

It took three tries but the spriget is no more. Unfortunately, I split the book’s ancient binding. Small price to pay for peace of mind.

(One of these books would have done the trick, but I would never sacrifice a precious ancient volume.)

Rush Hour

Rush Hour

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Was it just me or was everyone rushing on their walks late yesterday afternoon? Dog walkers and stroller pushers and people who usually saunter.

My excuse was a late start, but there was more to it than that. I glanced at my watch: it was 4:40 with a 4:59 sunset. I’d have to skedaddle.

It was an evening made for it: the scenery sliding, the air warming and cooling. Rolling up sleeves at some point, then rolling them down again when a chill came off the pond.

It’s another kind of rush hour, I thought. It was the light, lowering with every footfall, the early darkness, chasing us home. It was rush hour — not for automobiles but pedestrians.

The Farm

The Farm

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Like so many developments, it was named for what it replaced — a farm, Franklin Farm to be specific. I’ve strolled here several times in the last week, pondering place, as I often do, thinking about the leafy suburbs with their curved streets and their treacherous four-lane connector roads.

While researching my thesis recently, I read about Franklin Farm, just a mention of its creation by developer John T. “Til” Hazel, of Tysons Corner fame, the man who arguably had more to do with the look and feel of my place than any other.

Hazel was born on a farm in McLean, Virginia, in 1930 and died on a farm in Fauquier County in 2022. In between, he helped transform Fairfax County from a land of farms to a land of subdivisions and shopping centers. First he represented developers, then he became one.

Hazel did much good for the county, was a juggernaut behind the expansion of George Mason University, for example. But his idea of open space was that it needed to be filled. We walk — when we can find a path or sidewalk — in his footsteps.

When Winds Collide

When Winds Collide

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I know the seasons have changed when the Dulles jets start using the alternative runway. I just searched for posts which mention runways, and all the ones that talk about the airport’s alternative one come in the cooler months of the year, mostly March and November, transitional months when winds collide.

On yesterday’s walk I passed a woman who told me she’d seen 10 planes swooping in low to land in one brief stroll. She was out again with her little dog and had already counted two more.

As for me, I skedaddled along the trail, turned up the volume on the podcast I was listening to, and kept my eyes fixed on the blue, blue sky.

Jazz and Justice

Jazz and Justice

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From Monday through Saturday I’m a classical music listener, but on Sundays I tune in to WPFW, Washington, with its motto “Jazz and Justice.”

Yesterday was the first Sunday in weeks I could listen to this station, travel and other errands keeping me away.

Though it wasn’t for long, and I had work to do, the low-key vibes of the “G Strings” show flowed beautifully through my computer. They kept me company as I worked on the annotated bibliography that’s the next “deliverable” in my thesis proposal semester and pondered the state of the world.

Jazz, absolutely. Justice, not yet. But we’re working on it, right?

Three Autumns

Three Autumns

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Today’s rain will bring down many leaves. I feel as I always do in late autumn — sad to see the foliage go but grateful for the show it’s put on in the process.

This year I’ve seen three brilliant bursts of color: in New England last month, on the drive to and while in Kentucky last week, and finally, the swirls of yellows and oranges that greeted me here in Virginia when I returned on Monday.

Three autumns in one year.

Beginning of the End?

Beginning of the End?

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Not to make too much of the election results — because this blog is anything but political — but I’ve been heartened by the lighter moods of those around me. Even the air yesterday felt more buoyant.

At book group last night, the mood was celebratory. Earlier in the day, a friend texted just three words: Hope is alive. A realtor we know is eagerly waiting an uptick in the real estate market. All around the country, people were waking up and cheering.

There will be two months of a lame-duck Congress and two years of a lame-duck presidency, but it’s hard not to see this as the beginning of the end of a national nightmare.

People Speaking

People Speaking

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You hear the phrase more often in past perfect tense: the people have spoken. Last night, as I watched election coverage, I felt the present-tense power of the moment. As the numbers came in, as red states turned blue, the people were speaking.

There were speaking here, where early voting allowed us to make our choices weeks in advance.

They were speaking in Kentucky, where many of the folks whose yard signs I saw on my walks around town are newly elected judges or city council members.

They were speaking in Texas and Ohio and Maine and Kansas. They were speaking in Georgia and the Carolinas, too. They were speaking in Virginia, where new amendments will be added to the constitution.

Today, we can say “the people have spoken.” But yesterday and throughout these last few weeks, they have been raising their voices, calling for cheaper groceries and gasoline, calling for civility. I hope today’s results will start to heal our troubled land.

Under 500

Under 500

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I’m back in Virginia after a drive home that was shorter than it used to be. For many years, the mileage was 525 miles door to door. These were the years when Mom and Dad were in and out of the hospital and I would think nothing of jumping in the car and coming to their aid.

I’ve made fewer trips to Lexington the last 10 years, and haven’t checked the mileage. When I did this morning, I learned why the trip seemed easier: It’s 498 miles.

This must be unique in the annals of recent automotive locomotion. With the exception of the pricey express lanes (which I’m too cheap to use) most driving trips are longer than they used to be. There are more cars on the road and more roads under construction.

But the route I take to Lexington has gotten more direct thanks to the mountain throughway known as Corridor H, Eleven miles of new pavement opened in June with four more due to open in 2028. The scenery is stunning, the road is empty, and the mileage is lower than it’s ever been: under 500! That’s a number I appreciate.

Streets and Time

Streets and Time

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I say their names like a mantra, like a litany: Cooper, Cochran, Duke, Romany, Colony, Providence, Chinoe, Lakewood, Hart, Woodland, Euclid, Ashland.

I want to remember these streets, really remember them. Know which ones are parallel and which are perpendicular, which are curved and which are straight.

I’ve always known the names, but I had forgotten which was which. On this trip, I’ve committed them to memory.

These are the streets of my youth, where I pedaled my blue Schwinn bicycle, hung out with friends, sauntered home from school. Later, these were the first streets I drove on my own, where I tried (and often failed) to parallel park.

I had all the time in the world then. Did I know it?

I do now.