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A High Wind

A High Wind

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A high wind has sprung up on this day that used to be known as Columbus Day but is now also known as Indigenous People’s Day. It started yesterday, this wind, and though it’s stirring the leaves that have already fallen from the poplar and the witch hazel, it isn’t, as far as I know, leading to any rain.

When the big gusts come, they blow aside the bamboo that now nearly obscures my view of the black gum tree. Black gum leaves can put on quite a show in late October, so I’m happy for this glimpse of them, for their phosphorescence and their beauty.

Mostly I’m thinking about this country, on this day three weeks and a day away from a contentious election. I’m thinking about how divided we are, a division that is implied in the two names we have for this day.

Who owns this country? It’s a question I hope we never stop asking.

Hitting Home

Hitting Home

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The monster storm known as Milton made landfall last night about 9:30 p.m. It came ashore on the very same Florida beach I’ve been escaping to for more than a decade, Siesta Key.

A barrier island known for its sugar-white sand and relaxed village vibe, Siesta Key is a place I’ve come to know and love. The thought of it pummeled by 120-mile-an-hour winds and submerged under 10 feet of storm surge is making my stomach turn.

It’s too early yet to tell the extent of the damage. I’m hoping it’s minimal, but I’m afraid it’s not. In other words, Florida is still on my mind.

(A Siesta Key evening, 2023)

A Prayer for Asheville

A Prayer for Asheville

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As the death toll mounts in North Carolina, I think about the beauty of the place and the terror of the storm. Most of all, I think about the lives lost. More than 100 already confirmed dead; 200 still missing.

We visited Asheville almost two years ago. It was a quick trip sandwiched in between obligations. It was January, and a cold rain fell one of the three days we were there. But despite the weather and the haste, I loved the place: its mountain beauty, its funky vibe.

Now, residents are searching for survivors, digging out homes, queueing for water. At this moment, Asheville is not a resort town; it’s a crisis zone. My heart goes out to all those in Western North Carolina. May you find relief soon.

Sunset in Asheville, January 9, 2023

An Appetizer

An Appetizer

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You’d think I would know what it was, but when I heard the pop last night in the car, my first thought was that it was coming from the radio. 

Instead, it was coming from the fireworks that were exploding off to my left, filling the night sky with light as I drove north toward home. 

I could only catch glimpses of the display, but they were a perfect appetizer for tonight’s full-course meal.

Ancient Artifact

Ancient Artifact

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I was stopped on my morning walk by a friendly neighbor. He rolled down his car window and asked, “Are you missing a Christmas tree ornament?” It’s almost July. Tree trimmings are not on my mind. I uttered something noncommittal. 

“Because we found one in front of your house, near where you might have left the tree for pickup. It was sticking out of the dirt there. A rocking horse?”

Well yes, there was a rocking horse ornament, metal with a looped string to attach it. Could it have escaped my multiple searches through the fir branches in early January?

It could — and it did. The ornament has, uh, weathered, shall we say. It looks like something from the 18th century, not the late 20th. But now it’s home again, thanks to a kind neighbor. 

A Birthday

A Birthday

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Through the years, birthdays become attached to the people who hold them. Today will always be Nancy’s day, even though Nancy is gone. 

It was on this day, long ago, that I landed in Europe for the first time. The date wasn’t accidental. It was Nancy’s 20th birthday, and I was meeting her in Luxembourg. We had planned to be chamber maids in a Swiss hotel, but our employment fell through at the last minute. Instead, we traveled through Europe for two months on what I will politely call a lean budget. 

We trudged through London in rain so heavy I thought my shoes would never dry out. We explored what seemed like every Viennese hovel in which Beethoven had ever lived (and there were a lot of them). We toured Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome and Pisa. We scrambled to find places to sleep, and sometimes they were train compartments. 

The trip cemented our friendship, brought it through the decades. I think of our travels now with great wonder and gladness. They bring Nancy closer, which is where I want her to be. 

(Nancy and I spent many hours in train stations, though not this one, which is in Edinburgh.) 

Bluuuue Sky

Bluuuue Sky

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It’s not cerulean or azure or aquamarine. To describe the sky I saw on yesterday’s walk, we need a new word. I propose bluuuue. Not blue, or even bluuue. This is bluuuue (four ‘u’s) at its purest and most intense. The hue of a cloudless sky.

I have a reason for describing this on Father’s Day.  Dad was the king of blue skies. He didn’t seem to notice the clouds, or if he did, he chose to ignore them.

So in honor of him, and fathers everywhere, the bluest bluuuue sky photo I can find.
50 Stars

50 Stars

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It’s Flag Day, a holiday you don’t hear much about but which I usually remember. I looked it up and learned that it commemorates the day when the Continental Congress approved the design of a flag for the United States — June 14, 1777. At that point, the flag had 13 stars and 13 stripes. 

Until 1912, flags weren’t as proscribed as they are now. Much was left in the hands of individual flag-makers.  At one point, there were 15 stripes and 15 stars — honoring Vermont and my home state of Kentucky, in addition to the original 13 colonies. 

But adding a star and a stripe for every new state became cumbersome, and by the early 19th century, new states earned a star but not a stripe.

Now our flag has 50 stars, of course. I wonder if there will ever be more. 

Best Present Ever!

Best Present Ever!

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Today there’s another little person in the world, my newest grandchild, who just gave me the best birthday present ever: arriving yesterday at 6:30 p.m., just hours before the day I came into the world a few (ahem) years ago.

Who knows what triggers labor. I don’t know the latest research. But I like to think there’s something magical about it. At least two of my three children would have different birthdays if they were of this generation. Doctors don’t let women go two weeks beyond their due dates anymore. 

But this little girl came on her own steam, at her own time. She decided she wanted her own special day. I can’t wait to meet her!

Memorial at Ball’s Bluff

Memorial at Ball’s Bluff

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I couldn’t visit my parents’ graves at a national cemetery in Kentucky, so yesterday I thought I’d do the next best thing: visit a national cemetery in Virginia. Arlington immediately sprang to mind … and just as quickly left it as I thought about the traffic.

Instead, I found a small national cemetery — the third smallest in the U.S., as a matter of fact — located near a Civil War battlefield, Ball’s Bluff. You can hike down to the Potomac, which Union soldiers crossed before the battle on October 21, 1861. 

The skirmish did not go well for them. The Confederates prevailed, just as they had at the Battle of Bull Run a few months earlier, and a U.S. senator,  Edward Baker, was killed. His death is commemorated with a marker, and the small walled cemetery there holds the remains of 54 Union soldiers. 

It was a warm day, but the paths were shady, and at the trail’s end, the Potomac River was calm and peaceful, a contrast to that day … and so many others.