With Halloween and All Saints Day behind us, we come one again to a more humble celebration in the liturgical calendar: All Souls, the day set aside each year to honor the dead. Not just the famous or the pious but everyone.
That’s a lot of souls. According to the Population Reference Bureau, about 109 billion. And every one of them once a life, a presence, a story.
I don’t know about you, but this day feels more sacred to me than all the others.
Yesterday, my neighborhood rolled out all the stops for a Halloween parade and party, complete with “Monster Mash” and other seasonal favorites blared over a loudspeaker attached to a slow-moving truck; a bouncing room for the little tykes; a haunted forest; and pizza and candy for all.
We saw baby pirates, glittering princesses; and a rumpled, white-wigged Einstein. My grandkids were a 50s-style greaser, a bumblebee and SpiderMan. It was chaotic and fun.
True, I never found the treasure trove of costumes that my own girls wore, many of them hand-made by their seamstress grandma. But those will undoubtedly show up soon, in plenty of time for me to lose them by next Halloween.
I took the photo because the light was slanting in from the east and turning all the people into dark forms walking. I took it because of the brick pavement and the lamps that looked like gaslights. I did not take it because the walls were covered with bubblegum. In fact, I didn’t even venture into the alley.
But after I returned, when I was looking through the photos I took on that trip, I realized that this was the famed Gum Wall of Post Alley, a Seattle attraction that I had so far missed but that the governor insists is his “favorite thing about Seattle you can’t find anywhere else.”
I learned that last tidbit from Wikipedia, which also informed me that the Gum Wall became a tourist attraction in 1999, was voted the second most germ-filled tourist attraction in the world a decade later (coming in second to the Blarney Stone) and that more than a ton of gum was removed in 2015 to clean the bricks below.
Experiencing the gum wall only in a photograph is a funny way to “view” this attraction, but given the general ickiness of the place, perhaps the most sanitary one.
Although you might not think it, there are hills around here, inclines that push walkers and cyclists into overdrive. These are not the hills of Seattle rising like cartoon mountains, making a hazard of rolling suitcases and winding the faint-hearted in just one block. These are more subtle gradients, but gradients just the same.
It dawned on me lately while walking up a steep rise that it’s the piedmont at work. The land we inhabit here on the western edge of Fairfax County is just past the fall line of the Potomac. Virginia hunt country lies nearby.
We live in the northern Piedmont region, literally at the foot of the mountains, those mountains being the Blue Ridge, which you can see rising like gray ghosts a quarter mile from here if the weather is clear.
It’s comforting to think, as I chug up a steep grade, that I’m not just out of shape … I’m hiking the Piedmont.
With a new French-speaking grandson, I find myself dredging up phrases from ancient history — a high school class in French I. Today’s is “il fait du vent” … it’s windy.
But how much more trippingly does “Il fait du vent” fall off the tongue? Pretty trippingly, I’d say.
Apparently, I could also phrase it as “Il y a du vent,” but I’ll stick with what I learned years ago. Which is way too little to converse with a bright 11-year-old.
Once again, I’m struck by the paucity of foreign language study in the U.S. — or at least my language study!
(I met these children on a trip to Benin in 2015.)
Even watching the trailer sends chills down my spine, so I will probably not be watching “The Exorcist” this Halloween. But tonight I will be attending class right next to the “Exorcist Stairs,” the Washington, D.C. landmark where the movie’s final scene was filmed.
In this scene, Father Miller, who’s attempting to rid the 12-year-old Regan of the demon, falls from Regan’s window down these narrow steps to his death. According to Culture Trip, the stuntman assigned this task had to fall down the stairs twice to perfect the scene.
I found the stairs a couple weeks ago after walking past them earlier in my rush to get to class. But once a classmate told me where they were, I made a point to walk them the next week.
I’m happy to say that I did not fall. But I did huff and puff a little. And I definitely felt a sinister vibe. The stairs are steep and creepy, just as billed, and apparently, if you try to count them, you’ll never come up with the same number twice.
I found myself in Vienna last Friday. Not Vienna, Austria (though that would have been nice) but Vienna, Virginia, which is 20 minutes from my house, a place I often pass through on my way to somewhere else.
There is a strange disconnect to walk along streets one usually drives, sort of like flipping a video from regular play into slow-mo.
There is the house on the corner lot with its split-rail fence and funky upstairs addition — but instead of zipping by it I can see the details, the little upstairs deck with its wrought-iron tables and unmatched chairs.
There are streets whose names elude me at 35 miles per hour: Garrett and Malcolm and Holmes. Solid middle-class names, though their neighborhoods are ones made pricey by their (mostly) large lots and desirable location within walking distance of Metro (back when that mattered).
I ambled along Center and Lawyers, past Salsbury Spring, which was the only source of water for the area during the drought of 1930. I saw the place with new eyes after learning that, felt a little more connected to this place I (almost) call home.
An open door, a world of light — and a piano. Scarcely a day passes that I don’t play it, or wish I had. To touch the keys and realize, I own this thing, I can walk over here and pound out a Brahms Intermezzo or a Bach Prelude whenever I want — well it’s been months since I bought this piano but it still thrills me.
Writing about the playing is something else entirely, though. That’s because music is the other, the part that can’t be pinned down by precision. It flows where the words won’t go.
A few nights ago, I found a book of music I’d forgotten I had, transcriptions of orchestral works, including the second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, which I took out and played.
This was a piece popularized by an impressive scene from “The King’s Speech,” but whenever I hear it I will always remember the University of Kentucky’s Piano Institute the summer before my junior year of high school. There was a young assistant professor there who taught music theory, and for one class he had us sit in a dingy room in basement of the Performing Arts building with big clunky earphones on our ears and our heads down on our arms listening to this music.
I can’t remember now what lesson we were to take away from that experience. All I know is that in the darkness and with the earphones, the soft dirge of the opening chords built slowly to the crescendo at the piece’s midpoint in a way that made my heart fill near to bursting. And somehow, the other night, I was able to capture a bit of that feeling again … on the new piano.
Yesterday there was another first birthday, this one for our precious granddaughter, Bernadette. There were presents and cake and a special meal, a trip to the park with her mom and a visit with her grandparents and aunts and cousin.
But the big present was still to come. She was going to meet it (him!) right after she and her mom left us at 8 p.m. That would be her new brother, age 11, arriving with his dad on a plane from Benin, West Africa via Istanbul.
A year and two days ago, Suzanne and Appolinaire were a family of two. Now … they’re a family of four. We’re all rejoicing for them.
So many walks to choose from these days, paths around ponds and through forests. Trails in the morning, chaste of footfall. Paths in the afternoon, littered with leaf bits from all the walking.
On Tuesday I passed two ponds, a bright one with cattails and a shady one rippled as if a fan were blowing on it.
The water was meditative, brisk, a mirror of the moment.