Close Enough?

Close Enough?

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There was a family gathering recently, and as usual at family gatherings, barely controlled chaos. As we finished up the meal, a transgression came to light. A pair of five-year-olds had absconded with a pair of earrings. This meant they had gone upstairs and rummaged through a bedroom, another no-no.

There were the usual denials and deflections. He did it. No, she did it. Then a firm parental voice: “That is unacceptable behavior. Those earrings did not belong to you. This is not your house. Repeat that so I know you understand.”

A wee voice responded with scant contrition: “Those earrings aren’t mine.” Barely controlled smirks from the crowd.

“This isn’t my house,” said with more petulance than penitence. The crowd is now holding its collective breath, trying hard not to laugh.

Then the coup de grace. “Close enough,” said the five-year-old with a flounce of her pretty skirt.

That was it. The howls of glee could not be stilled. We began with stern and ended with silly. Were we close enough? I hope so.

Swan Lake

Swan Lake

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Yesterday brought freakish warmth. Welcome warmth, given the cold winter, but freakish just the same. Last week I was still debating if I could walk without gloves, and I began the stroll with hands balled up into my sleeves.

I trod counter-clockwise around the lake, spotting a fellow walker halfway around. She was craning her neck between houses to get a better view. She was quick to share her discovery.

“I’ve never seen swans on the lake before,” she said. “But I just did.” She showed me where to look, and there they were, vague dots of white on a smooth, glassy surface.

I snapped a shot, not just of the swans but of the place that held them: the green foliage thick with rain, a house in the distance, dark trunks fading to gray.

It was not just the swans but swans on the lake. It was that moment of that walk, captured in time.

She Kept A Diary

She Kept A Diary

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I just finished reading The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon, historical fiction chronicling a winter in the life of Martha Ballard, the midwife of A Midwife’s Tale by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich.

I’ve had the latter on my shelf for years, though I haven’t read it. But The Frozen River pulled me in from the beginning. What struck me most about the novel was not how quickly I turned the pages, but how vividly the character of Martha was portrayed.

I didn’t realize until the author’s note at the end that Martha Ballard was the same 18th-century midwife that appeared in A Midwife’s Tale, and that all the diary entries in the novel are the ones penned by the real, historical Ballard. A woman we only know because she kept a diary.

As Ulrich writes, “Outside her own diary Martha has no history. No independent record of her work survives. It is her husband’s name, not hers, that appears in censuses, tax lists, and merchant accounts for her town…. Martha did not leave a farm, but a life, recorded patiently and consistently for 27 years.”

Here’s how the fictional Martha put it: “I cannot say why it is so important I make this daily record. Perhaps because I have been doing so for years on end? Or maybe—if I am being honest—it is because these markings of ink and paper will one day be the only proof that I have existed in this world. That I lived and breathed. That I loved a man and the many children he gave me. It is not that I want to be remembered, per se. I have done nothing remarkable. Not by the standards of history, at least. But I am here. And these words are the mark I will leave behind.”

As a diarist/journal-keeper for decades, I know just what she means. She kept a diary. And that made all the difference.

(A ledger from Williamsburg, Virginia, the same era as Ballard, but with numbers not words on the page.)

Season of Light

Season of Light

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I seldom think of my body as a well-oiled machine, but the sleep disruption brought about by one hour of “springing head” makes me wonder. We were dodging bullets in a war, jumping in cars to avoid being hit. According to the dreamscape, I was in Afghanistan, but the Iran war must have been the trigger. That and the strange new evening light.

Hopeful that it’s just a one-night readjustment I turn to the more important matter at hand. Our time change Sunday ushers in the season of light. How often at the end of summer do I kick myself for not enjoying it more, not being out in it every minute I can.

Outside-after-dinner, I call it. I saw folks enjoying it last evening, neighbors on bikes or on foot, working in a walk after supper but surprised by the sudden darkness. Though it was light till 7:30, spring twilights aren’t as long as summer ones.

Every year this time I’m reluctant to leave my winter cocoon. Aside from shoveling snow, there are few outdoor tasks in January and February. But March brings back the gardening to-dos. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed.

Still, we’re on the move. We’ve rounded the corner. The sun is on our side. We are once again in the season of light.

(Miniature daffodils are already blooming in the front garden.)

Morning Fog

Morning Fog

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The last two mornings I’ve awakened to a dense fog, a softened world. No hard edges, no horizon, like the fuzzy innards of a favorite sweatshirt.

When I look out the window I see the back fence but nothing beyond it. My boundaries are narrowed, and for once I’m not complaining. A foggy morning comforts just-opened eyes, soothes winter-worn skin. It asks no favors.

Yesterday I was out and about early in the fog. I walked around Lake Anne, marveling at how little I could see, marveling too at how the lake became an Impressionist painting.

Today, with the faraway blocked, the close-at-hand takes center stage. I watch a pair of cardinals frolic in the witch hazel tree.

Sip and Remember

Sip and Remember

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I titled last year’s post Hike and Sip and illustrated it with a view of the Atlantic Ocean framed by an orange tree (the view you see above, as a matter of fact).

I wrote the post on the Portuguese island of Madeira, where I was this time last year. Hard not to think of that sunny spot as I look out my office window at a foggy, wintry world. Hard not to think of the little teahouse on a hill, of the hiking trail that took us there.

Not that I’m complaining. I was lucky to be where I was last year and am lucky this year. too. Lucky to have warmth on the way (it’s supposed to be 70 on the weekend), lucky to have breath in my lungs and a skip in my step. Lucky most of all to have so many dear ones in my life.

Still, I’m going to indulge myself for just a moment. As I sip my tea this morning I’ll pretend that I’m staring not at a snippet of Virginia piedmont but at the vast shining ocean, at bougainvillea and rhododendron and calla lilies, at red tile roofs that stretch to the sea.

Hesitation

Hesitation

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Word comes from bud watchers that the Tidal Basin cherry trees will bloom later than they have in years. The sustained cold weather has set them back to a more typical blossom time in early April.

It seems fitting, given the heaviness of world events. It seems right that spring should hesitate. Yes, we are winter-weary, but why should we bask in sunlight and flowers?

For that reason, I’m enjoying these last few cold, rainy days. They suit my mood and, dare I say it, the mood of the world. Let us hope for a quick end to the war. Let us hope for a spring we can truly celebrate.

Good Things

Good Things

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A friend had a book to lend, a library book she thought I would finish long before its due date. She was right. I’m racing through the historical novel and will complete it in no time.

But there was another library book I could borrow, she said, one I’d never heard of: Good Things by Samin Nosrat, a cookbook. I’m not much of a cook but I took it as a sign.

The very next day, at a Georgetown bookstore, two wriggly preschoolers in tow, I spot the very same book. Not one copy, but shelves full of them. This is a very popular item, I learned. You can wait months in library holds queues for the chance to read it. Or you can pay $45 and own it yourself.

But here I am with my very own copy for more than two weeks. I’ve already begun perusing, marking, learning from this esteemed chef who encourages mastery in the kitchen, learning the basics of “salt, fat, acid, heat” (the title of her first, smash-hit book). Crunchy cabbage slaw with creamy sesame-ginger dressing anyone?

(Above, a salad made without the benefit of Good Things … but still good, if I recall.)

No Coats

No Coats

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Over the weekend we stepped into March. In my neck of the woods, weathers were reversed. It was Saturday, the last day of February, when temperatures hit the mid-60s, and yesterday, March 1, when they slipped back to their more wintry ways.

But who cared? The children I was with acted like it was still in the 60s. They wore shorts and dresses and sweaters, no coats. They raced around the playground until their cheeks were rosy with the cold while this adult stood bundled in a parka.

It made me think about the nature of youth, its energy and drive, how it fills the sails, puffs them out; how it moves us forward. For many years we don’t realize that youth is what’s propelling us. Then, we must propel ourselves: through optimism, through grit, through hanging out with little folk who need no coats.

The Bellwether

The Bellwether

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A spring bellwether has appeared, the first yellow flowers of the witch hazel tree. Some years I miss them, so focused I am on the snow and sludge that lies beneath. But this year the blossoms seem brighter than usual. They steal the show.

I’ll admit that the bar is rather low. There is nothing else blooming in the yard. The palette ranges from brown to gray with a few spots of green from the bamboo and ground cover.

In other yards, crocus are emerging, heather is budding, lenten roses are stirring. But here, the angle of the yard and the placement of plants ensure that winter rules for as long as it can.

Except for the witch hazel tree, the outlier, the bellwether. I’m glad it’s here.

(Photo: Wikipedia. I can’t get a good shot of my own tree right now!)