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The Fray

The Fray

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My self-imposed blackout lasted until about 6 p.m. yesterday. Forgoing media allowed me to be a little more productive and a little less anxious than I would have been otherwise. But then the floodgates were open, and I learned the razor-thin wire on which we walk, each side convinced that “there be dragons” on the other. 

In my saner moments, when I can step back from the fray, I continue wondering how we got to this place, this divided place. I’ve been reading and thinking about it for four years. But these musings are in the head, not the heart. And it’s my heart now that is pitter-pattering, as are millions of other hearts across this great land of ours. 

On Tuesday I stuck an American flag out by the mailbox, and it has flown there since. It seemed one way to reassert the position I’m trying so hard now to believe — that there is still more that unites us than divides us. 

The Blackout

The Blackout

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I’ve been awake for hours and have seen only the barest shred of news, an update that appeared unbidden on my phone screen about the vote tally in Arizona. I’m trying to see how long I can hold out without looking at a news or social media site, without turning on the television or picking up the newspaper, which lies forlornly out by the forsythia bush. 

It’s not that I don’t want to know the current tallies. I’m as curious as the next person, I imagine. But I also know that once I look, the truth (whatever it is right now, even if inconclusive) will be with me — and I won’t be able to ignore it or wish it away.

So I’ve drifted through the day in my own bubble, writing in my journal and on this screen, exercising on the elliptical and stretching on the floor, making and sipping a cup of tea, tidying up. 

I know I can’t keep up this blackout forever. Curiosity will get the better of me and I’ll peak at some sites, learn some totals. But until then, I’m enjoying my own little news-free zone. It’s calm and cozy in here. 

Blue Moon Halloween

Blue Moon Halloween

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Last evening’s moonlight made striped shadows of newly bare trunks and lit the backyard with its wan glow. 

Tonight’s blue moon (the second full moon of the month) will rise on little ghosts and goblins who, instead of ringing doorbells, will grab treat bags from tables placed at the ends of driveways. 

If clouds stay away, moonlight will be their companion. But even if they don’t, these kiddos will see houses more decked out for the season than any year in recent memory. Giant spiders climb ropes that span most of a yard. Skeletons dangle from doorways. And webs spread from hedge to hedge. 

It’s a creepy, crawly little world folks have created for children this year. A fun, faux-frightening one set amidst the very scary real one we are, at least today, trying to ignore.

Autumn Bond

Autumn Bond

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Autumn is rolling out quite the red (and gold) carpet for our fall “babies” (our new granddaughter’s mother’s birthday is today). 

Decades ago, when I was expecting Suzanne, I hoped she would be born in time enough to enjoy the glories of autumn. We lived in northern Massachusetts then, though, and the trees were almost bare when she arrived. 

As it turns out, though, Suzanne’s birthday is perfectly aligned for autumn color in the mid-Atlantic — and so is her baby’s. 

Now when I marvel at the bright colors, inhale the scent of crushed leaves, I think about how she and her baby will always have this bond. This time of simultaneous change and equilibrium will always be theirs to share. 

Baby Girl!

Baby Girl!

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Our second grandchild arrived in the wee hours of the morning: a little girl this time! Like her cousin, she was born slightly before the due date, an awesome accomplishment that has me wondering … will both these children be punctual beings, or more than punctual, will they always arrive early? An amazing thought!

Childbirth in the age of Covid means we are scattered about the region and the country, sharing the news with middle-of-the-night texts, sending hearts and flowers and congratulations notes, waking and cheering and giving thanks and falling back to sleep (or trying to) with images of infants in our heads. 

Suzanne was a sweet big sister right from the start, as she demonstrates here, in one of the first photos I have of her holding Claire. 

Now she’s holding a baby of her own, long awaited, cherished and treasured by many. I hope mom, dad and baby feel the love we’re sending their way. I bet they do!

The Big Send

The Big Send

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In an hour or two, I’ll drive to the Oak Hill post office to mail 100 letters, part of the Vote Forward campaign which today will send 15,000,000 (that’s 15 million!) letters to voters in swing states. The organizers are calling it the Big Send.

It’s a way to canvas for votes during a pandemic and it’s business for the beleaguered U.S. Postal Service. Plus … and this is my favorite part … it’s a vote of confidence for the old school approach: pen and paper, envelopes and stamps, snail mail. It’s harkening back to an epistolary mode of communication that’s so old it’s new again.

I’m glad I could find time recently to pen a few lines to voters who are registered but seldom go to the polls, explaining why I vote and encouraging them to do the same. It’s not exactly knocking on doors, but it’s a small movement in that direction. 

Sleepless in America

Sleepless in America

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It was raining last night, hard at times. It pounded the roof and formed a curtain of sound between the house and the world. It seemed to be washing away all that had come before, including the presidential debate we had just watched.

I thought it would be difficult to sleep, but exhaustion and the sound of rain on the roof carried me away for five hours, when I awoke chest pounding, thoughts ricocheting. No need to go into those; let’s just say they weren’t pretty. 

But there was one consolation: Last night, I imagine, I was not alone. I can only assume there were legions of us tossing and turning. Last night, I suspect, it was the exception rather than the rule to be sleepless in America. 

Goin’ to the Chapel

Goin’ to the Chapel

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My niece is getting married today, so the family is gathering at an inn on the Chesapeake Bay for the ceremony and reception. I had a sneak preview of the spot at the rehearsal dinner last night. It’s right on the water, with gulls and boats and waves. Though less than two hours from home, it’s another world.

For the most part, my tenure as an aunt has coincided with my tenure as a mother. I had little time to relish the role in and of itself. But I felt a trace of pure “aunt-ness” yesterday … with the promise of more to come today.

It’s the same kind of love and pride you feel with your own children, just one layer removed. And, because there is more distance, there is also more perspective. At a wedding, especially, where I’ll have to do no more than a reading during the ceremony and the rest of the time enjoy myself. 

It brings back memories of almost exactly four years ago, when we turned our back yard into a wedding venue for Suzanne and Appolinaire. Weddings are like that, I think. They carry within them memories of nuptials past. 

All Dressed Up…

All Dressed Up…

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It’s the day after Labor Day, a momentous occasion that used to strike fear and excitement in the hearts of my children and all the kiddos in this area — and equal amounts of glee and relief for their parents. 

It was a day marked with the arrival of the big yellow buses lumbering down the street and stopping at the corner, where a parade of scrubbed schoolchildren with shiny new backpacks would step into them — and be whisked off to their new lives. 

That has all changed this year with the decision to hold virtual classes only in Fairfax County. There’s little glee and relief for parents, who are trying to make their children sit still for six hours of online education.  And there are no big yellow buses plying the neighborhood streets. Caption them … “all dressed up — and nowhere to go.”

About Last Night

About Last Night

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This blog is mostly apolitical, but I do want to comment on the speech given last night by the Democratic nominee for president, Joe Biden. It was the only night I tuned in — and I’m glad I did. 

Yes, it was strange and stilted, given the raucousness of a typical convention. But when the nominee finally spoke, he pulled me in. What got me was not the critique of the current president he offered or the plans for the future he laid out. What got me was the hope and the empathy he seemed to radiate, right through the screen.  

I felt, at last, that someone gets what we’re going through right now, that we all need a sort of giant group hug (though of course a socially distant one). The truth is, most of us are hurting — in ways small and large — and we need the salve of understanding not the irritant of dissension.

The campaign is only just beginning in earnest. There are months to go before November 3. Anything can happen — and given the way things go now, anything probably will. But nothing can take away the moment of connection I felt last night. Or the thrill of hope that flowed from it.