Mrs. Dean has been gone more than two decades now, but her garden is still thriving — a legacy for its current owners (who have lovingly cared for it) and those who live nearby.
It starts off innocently enough: daffodils and forget-me-nots.
But it soon slopes down a steep hill into a bowl-shaped parcel studded with red bud and dogwood. It’s a secret garden, a natural ravine designed to look as wild as possible. I’m glad I could see it as it’s just coming alive to spring.
The Kentucky Derby is the first Saturday in May — but in Lexington it’s the second Saturday in April when all eyes turn to the track.
That’s when the three-year-old Derby hopefuls race in Keeneland’s Blue Grass Stakes. Yesterday’s winner, Dance with Fate, may not race next month, but that didn’t dampen turnout — it was the second largest crowd in history. The 77-degree temperature didn’t hurt.
So there were picture hats and tailgate parties and that familiar damp smell under the grandstand. There was the fine dirt flying up from galloping hooves down the back stretch. And there was the crescendo roar from the crowd when the thoroughbreds crossed the finish line.
Not that I was there. I’m just imagining it.
It was the end of a long day, a long week — and it was a long walk, too. But I left the office yesterday a little before 5, cruised through Judiciary Square, the Penn Quarter and onto the Mall. By that point the mood was decidedly celebratory.
And even though I said I wouldn’t do it again, I walked all the way around the pink-petal-rimmed Tidal Basin, joining the throngs on one of the first warm days in the nation’s capital.
It’s worth noting that unless you want to rent a paddle boat, strolling is the only way to see the cherry trees in their glory.
So I did. As did everyone else. Babies in prams, bikers in spandex, bureaucrats in blazers — we were
all ambling for one purpose: to see the cherries in peak bloom and welcome the
spring.
It has been such a hard winter … but now it’s over.
Hallelujah!
The pipe burst on Friday, the day after I sent the magazine to the printer. I was working at home, but colleagues noticed water seeping under my door and puddling on the carpet. They called facilities, which sent personnel, shop vacs, large fans, drying machines. My desk and file cabinet were put on blocks.
The hard work paid off. Other than a few water-damaged boxes (which I’ve tossed) the place looks better than it did last week.
The waters came, raged and departed.
They left behind a stiller, calmer world.
(This may not look still and calm, but compared with last week…)
The one I remember was teal and beige, nubby and flecked. It was lightweight and lined. It was essential in the way that white gloves were once essential.
It was my spring coat.
I thought of it this morning as I trudged to work in my winter coat. It’s what I turn to when the temperature is in the 30s, which it was when I left the house.
But it’s ten degrees warmer here in the city, and the coat suddenly seems a relic, an anomaly, something that should be buried in the back of the closet.
What I need today is a spring coat, a bridge from season to the other.
This is not a sports blog, of course, but I must say a few words about the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team. They lost last night 54-60 to the University of Connecticut Huskies in the NCAA final.
The team’s energy felt different right from the opening buzzer. Key players seemed off, were in and out of the game. Free throws missed as often as they hit. The Cats had finally met a team that closed as strong as they do. Stronger, in fact.
If this was a decade ago, we’d be shaking our heads at what they could do next year, this young, freshmen team. But this group is a one-year wonder. Most of them will be gone next year, in the NBA, most probably.
It’s hard to say that “one and done” is a failure when this team made it to the finals. But it’s not the kind of basketball I grew up with.
Still, I have to say it one more time: Go, Big Blue!
(A UK dormitory building snapped from the UK Library.)
The rain has been heavier than forecast and the temperature colder.
Birds like it, though. They’re glad to have moisture and birdseed in the feeder and, best of all, a nip of suet.
But for the rest of us it’s a day to stay inside, count our blessings and be grateful for small pleasures.
That’s what I’m doing.
An early walk this morning, and along the path I kept bumping into groups of runners. Each cluster of three or four would ask me if others were up ahead. I smiled and pointed behind me. Yes, they were all there, the pack.
I was glad to be of help — but even happier that I was running alone and not with others.
I belong to a family, a workplace, a church, a book group, a writer’s group and a tap dance class. But organized running is not for me.
Trail time is for thinking, listening to music, putting the day into perspective
And these are tasks best performed alone.
I heard them last night, the tiny, vocal frogs we know as spring peepers. Their chorus is a sure sign of spring.
They’re late this year, the little guys. Waiting for warmth, I imagine. We all are.
But who among us makes such music of our contentment?
If I read about peepers (and I think I did long ago) I would learn that their sounds are mating calls — not some existential expression of delight.
Still, after a long winter, in the just-dark of a warm spring evening, existential delight is what I hear.
I think the daffodils heard me. I wasn’t at home in the light to photograph
them. But here’s what their brethren downtown are doing.
And elsewhere in the District, things are popping out all over:
Let’s just see winter try to make a comeback now!