As the Seattlites sleep in (still on Pacific Daylight Time), I’ve lingered over my second cup of tea, which followed a long walk before the humidity began to surge, which followed almost eight hours of sleep.
This is what a life of leisure would be like, I tell myself (minus the time answering a couple work emails and putting up an away message).
I could get used to this.
(This posting was postponed by … people waking up and coming over!)
Apart from Suzanne’s long sojourn in Africa, I’ve never had one of my kids be away as long as Celia has. She left more than 11 months ago, bound for the Pacific Northwest. She’s built a new life for herself there.
But that doesn’t stop me from missing her. The last time I saw her, she gave me a little charm, a small shell that someone had given her when she left for the West Coast. I’ve kept it close ever since.
When I miss her even more than usual, I stroke the whorls of the shell, lift it up and inhale its scent, hoping that some trace of hers lingers on it.
We miss our children differently than we do our spouses or our parents or our friends. There is a visceral longing at times — I just want to hold her, give her a huge hug.
And, God willing, later today, I will.
The weekend weather was sunny and hot, perfect for Memorial Day. And the rain quite politely held off until this morning. I noticed the first faint drops on an early walk.
At first they seemed little more than moisture squeezed out of humid skies. But by the time I’d returned home and brewed a pot of tea the drops had turned into a deluge, and I drove to Metro with foggy windows on puddling roads.
It was a tropical rain that fell, sheets and sheets. I think of the flowers I just planted by the mailbox. They’ll be getting a long drink of water. And the ferns that are still in winter-basement mode (which is to say, half dead) … they will love the way this day is starting out.
Even humans don’t seem to mind terribly much. We’re heading back to the office anyway. So let the raindrops fall …
It’s Memorial Day and the dust is flying. Though today is the holiday, the big celebration is two days away when my youngest daughter and her husband arrive from Seattle. There has been more cleaning than usual going on here.
One of the things I found in my dustings and scrubbings was an American flag. There’s no pole to fly it from, though, so I’m thinking of hanging it out the window (after I figure out which way to arrange it).
As I do, I’ll be thinking of my favorite veteran (my dad), all who’ve served, and all who are no longer with us. I wish we could all be together on this last Monday in May.
The climbing roses reached their peak yesterday. I snapped photos of them from every angle, and Claire took photos with her new phone camera, too.
I tried to drink in their beauty as I scrubbed the porch table and chairs, as I removed the green film from the outside of the flower pots.
I tried to enjoy them during dinner with the storm that would be their undoing already making itself felt in the heavy air and ominous clouds.
I think I was successful, in as much as we humans every fully are. To savor the moment, the perfection of the bud and bloom, knowing full well the pile of petals that will follow — that about sums it up, doesn’t it?
Mom and Dad would have been married 67 years today. They made it to their 61st, which is quite a long run by modern standards. I bet I’m the only person remembering this today. Maybe not. My sister or brothers might be remembering it, too.
I was thinking a lot about their honeymoon when Drew and I took our road trip a couple weeks ago. Mom and Dad were married in Lexington, Kentucky, their hometown, but they took off immediately in an old Chevy bound for California.
The roads were barely all paved in 1952 — the interstate highway program officially began the next year — and though they were fine if they stuck to Route 66 … they didn’t always do that. They were prone to taking detours to “Kit Carson’s Cave” and other spots that piqued their curiosity.
Still, they made it to the West Coast, where they planned to start their married life. It was glamorous and exciting … but it wasn’t home. A few weeks later, they turned around and drove back.
It was the beginning of a grand journey together — and I’m thinking about it, and them, today.
On Friday, I watched my son-in-law Appolinaire graduate from Northern Virginia Community College. Yesterday I watched my niece Maggie graduate from Johns Hopkins medical school. Two very special achievements, two very different graduations.
The climbing roses are hitting their peak, creamy pink flowers on a carpet of green. While you can enjoy them from the deck or yard, they are best seen from a second floor bedroom window, where I snapped this shot.
I think there may be a life lesson in this: getting up and above things to see them whole.
With the climbing roses, as with life, perspective is all.
They’re working on Fox Mill Road, the quasi thoroughfare, quasi byway that links me to Metro and beyond. Conveniently, the detour starts just beyond my neighborhood, so at least for now the way home and back is clear. What isn’t convenient is that the detour runs right through my neighborhood.
Which meant that last night wasn’t the best evening to go for a post-dinner stroll. Still, that’s what I did — complete with headlamp and reflective vest.
It was busier than a typical Monday evening. I found myself stepping off the road more times than I would like. But even the higher-than-usual car volume couldn’t mar the peaceful evening, couldn’t banish the night sounds, lift the heavy air or blunt the honeysuckle scent that almost overpowered me at the corner.
The walk was my detour, too, a departure from my normal routine, my own diversion from the day.
Summer arrived yesterday, or maybe it was the day before. It rolled in on clouds of humidity and the sound of frogs croaking in the night. It shimmered in the still afternoon and whispered in the breeze that stirred the new leaves.
Summer always seems to me the normal season, the way things ought to be always. So … things are back to normal now. And they will be for another few months or so.
I wouldn’t want to live where it was always summer.
But I’m glad it finally is summer again.