A Walker in the Suburbs

No matter how often it happens, I never learn. Even though the radio has gone silent and the house is dark, I flick the switch, expecting light. No air-conditioning, of course, but I’ll use a fan. Nope! Fans need electricity, too.

It lasted only six hours, but it was the third power outage here since February. Once again, it reminds me how thin is the layer of civilization, how quickly it all comes tumbling down.

I’ll admit I’ve been spoiled living in this land of buried power lines. It has lulled me into a false sense of security. Maybe the neighbors are right. They bought a generator years ago, and its whir rubs salt in the wound. But it would take many more outages to justify the expense. Better to do without, to learn (and relearn) the lesson, to be reminded of how powerless we really are.

(Though our trees were spared, wind gusts at Dulles reached 66 mph and some homes were without power 24 hours later.)

We head home today, down the northeast corridor on an Amtrak train. This after travel in a van, taxi, hired car, rental car, commuter train and subway.

The transportation has been as varied as the trip itself, which has featured a wedding, hikes through farms and conservation lands, and lots of visiting. We’ve seen sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews and cousins, wonderful friends and adorable doggies.

It’s the kind of travel I’m seeking now, which is not just about rekindling adventures … but renewing relationships.

It was home for almost two years, and I loved it for the light that poured in the windows and the hill across the street. We were lingering at the bottom of the steep driveway when its owner drove up.

“Sorry we’re standing here, but we used to live in your house,” I said.

“You lived here?” he asked, amazed. When we said yes, he invited us inside to look around.

For the next 20 minutes we chatted with the current occupant of our long-ago home. We walked inside and up the stairs, saw the new patio and the old fireplace. He asked us questions: was there a wall here? a door there?

I couldn’t stop thinking of the young couple who rented the house, the baby born to them there (now a young mother herself) and all the wonderful people who lived nearby. So often I imagine the rooms and contours of our old house. To see the real thing was a strange and wondrous experience.

I took dozens of picture-postcard photos yesterday. The sun was finally shining and we were back in a place I loved so long ago. There are hiking trails now and we could walk the whole day, leaving the car parked for 24 blissful hours.

We found the Nashua River Rail Trail and made our way north then south. It felt good to stretch the legs and move through space. Next, we hiked to Barcroft Castle on Gibbet Hill, which burned in 1932, leaving only the pebble-stone walls.

I was looking for the backdrop of the scene in Greta Gerwig’s “Little Women” where Laurie and Jo break up, which was filmed a mile from my old house. I think I found it, looking west from the castle across the Nashoba Valley toward the mountains of New Hampshire. I share it with you at the top of this post — and just for good measure — below, too.