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New Citizen Abo

New Citizen Abo

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Almost five years ago, his father stood with others from around the world and promised to defend this country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. My son-in-law Appolinaire recited the oath, shook hands with a customs officer and received a certificate of naturalization. 

Today, Appolinaire and my daughter will watch as their son becomes an American citizen. Prince arrived in the U.S. from Benin, West Africa, at age 11, on the first birthday of his baby sister.  She will be in the audience today, as will all of us, watching with pride as Prince, now 13, receives a gift he may not understand as well as his father did but which he will come to appreciate in time. 

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

It’s still a remarkable statement, still a wondrous philosophy on which to build a nation. And when you see the fervor with which new citizens embrace it, our country and its founding ideals feel as fresh and extraordinary as they did almost 250 years ago. 


(A snapshot from a 2019 naturalization ceremony)
For Nancy

For Nancy

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I met Nancy on our first day at Hanover College when we were homesick 18-year-olds. We missed our families, we loved to travel, we lived across the hall from each other. So we neglected our bio lab reports and stayed up late to hatch crazy schemes. Maybe we’d take a tramp steamer across the Atlantic or be chambermaids in a Swiss hotel. We didn’t quite pull off those adventures, but we did travel through Europe for two months on $5 ($3?) a day, surviving on baguettes and water. We’d gotten so skinny that Nancy’s own grandmother didn’t recognize her when she picked us up at the airport. 

Nancy and I stayed close through college and early adulthood. When Tom (another Hanoverian) and I moved to northern Virginia, Nancy, who’d lived here since grad school, quickly became an honorary aunt to our three daughters. 

Through the years, Nancy was at most every birthday party, graduation and other special event. She’s part of Suzanne’s first memory because it was Aunt Nancy who took care of her when Claire was born. Nancy even loved our sweet rascal of a dog, Copper. 

Nancy was a lawyer, historian and indexer extraordinaire. A proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, she traced her lineage back to Revolutionary War stock. One of her first and most notable jobs was at Mount Vernon, Washington’s home. 

Nancy continued to travel the country and the world, skiing in Colorado, bicycling in the Netherlands, visiting Israel, Jordan, Greece and Eastern Europe. For the last eight years or so, her travel has been up and down I-95 as she spent much time in Massachusetts caring for her parents. A devoted daughter, a loving sister, an exemplary friend. 

Three weeks ago, we learned that Nancy, always caring for others, was seriously ill herself. Friends and family flocked to her side. Her older sister dropped everything and virtually lived at the hospital. We saw Nancy as much as we could, but not nearly enough. It’s never enough when you can’t imagine the world without the person you’re visiting. 

Nancy slipped away over the weekend. I still can’t believe it. I wonder if I ever will. 

(Nancy, right, with our pal Peggy, another dear college friend)

A Confluence

A Confluence

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It happened regularly and would have happened today, which is both Mother’s Day and Dad’s birthday. I would make the trip out to Kentucky then, figuring the confluence gave me two reasons to visit. 

I always felt a bit bad for Dad on those days, worrying that the luster of his special day was dimmed a bit by having to share it with Mom. But Dad didn’t seem to mind. 

Now I have so many reasons to revel in this day, which celebrates both my parents and on which I will see or hear from my own precious daughters and grandchildren. 

It’s a confluence all right. 

Anniversary of a Masterpiece

Anniversary of a Masterpiece

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Now I know why I was hearing snippets of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony on the radio Tuesday. It was the two-hundredth anniversary of its premiere. For two centuries now we humans have had this masterwork at our disposal. 

Yesterday I read an account of its creation on the Marginalian. I’d heard some of this before, but I didn’t know about Beethoven’s devotion to Schiller, whose “Ode to Joy” the symphony’s last movement celebrates, or the piece’s long gestation period. I like to think of the notes rattling around in the composer’s head as he took one of his long walks through Vienna. 

Beethoven insisted on conducting, though he was totally deaf by that point.  He was allowed to do so with the proviso that another conductor be present as a “backup.” This conductor instructed the musicians to look only at him. 

When the last notes sounded the audience at first fell silent, perhaps aware even then that they had witnessed not just a concert but a moment in history. And then, in the words of the Marginalian’s Maria Popova, “the gasping silence broke into a scream of applause. People leapt to their feet, waving their handkerchiefs and chanting his name. Beethoven, still facing the orchestra and still waving his arms to the delayed internal time of music only he could hear, noticed none of it, until Karoline Unger [the contralto soloist] stood up, took his arm, and gently turned him around.”

(Beethoven by Julian Schmid)

A Gathering of Writers

A Gathering of Writers

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I spent Saturday with 200 other writers at the 2024 Washington Writers Conference. Some of us pitched ideas to agents. Others attended panels. A few of us made sure the day was running smoothly. But all of us were our own writerly selves, and that was, at least for me, why the day was such a tonic.

Writing is a solitary occupation, with much staring at blank pages and screens. It can also be accompanied by self-questioning and doubt: How can I say that better? Should I say that at all? Will anyone read this?

When writers come together they share those questions, which eases those doubts. 

In one of the day’s more memorable lines, James Grady, author of Six Days of the Condor, said, “Writing is a cross between a heroin addiction and the sex drive. It’s a hunger that drives us forward.”

I looked around, and every head in the room was nodding yes.

(Above: Paul Dickson speaks to the crowd after receiving the Washington Independent Review of Books Lifetime Achievement Award. Dickson has written more than 60 nonfiction books. He encouraged attendees to support each other.)

Photo Finish!

Photo Finish!

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A photo finish was just what we needed yesterday, or at least just what I needed. A chance to lose the self in the moment, the moment being the “most exciting two minutes in sports,” the Kentucky Derby. 

In this case, those two minutes were followed by several more minutes of uncertainty as judges studied a photograph of the race’s conclusion, the first time since 1996 that such a move has been necessary. When the ruling came down — Mystik Dan by a nose — the crowd erupted. The 18-1 shot had bested Sierra Leone (9-2) and Forever Young (7-1). 

To see those three thoroughbreds thundering to the finish line, looking for all the world like a single unit, was to see grace in motion.

(A 1953 photo finish of the first triple dead heat in harness racing. Photo: Wikipedia)

Taking Comfort

Taking Comfort

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What do you write about when one of your oldest, dearest friends lies full of cancer in a hospital bed? The same thing you write about when your parents are dying, when you’re sick or confused or worn out. You write about the world around you.

It’s the second day of May. Roses are budding, birds are nesting, clematis is blooming. Last night, the first hummingbird of the season made its appearance. It’s a perfect spring morning.

Not perfect for everyone, of course, but at this moment, I feel its perfection. And I take comfort in describing it, parsing it, moving it from the real world onto the page.

Noise or Music?

Noise or Music?

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I’d been itching to watch the movie “Amadeus” ever since I heard Mozart’s Requiem in Kentucky. Last night I had the chance.

Though the score is the star of the show (mostly Mozart), one passage of dialogue stood out, when Mozart convinces the emperor to show an opera based on the play “The Marriage of Figaro.”

“In a play if more than one person speaks at the same time, it’s just noise, no one can understand a word. But with opera, with music… with music you can have twenty individuals all talking at the same time, and it’s not noise, it’s perfect harmony!”

Simultaneous conversations that produce beauty not cacophony. Perhaps we should be singing out all our national disagreements. A strange thought … but maybe an interesting experiment?

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Poetry in Prose

Poetry in Prose

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A salute in prose to National Poetry Month, 30 days devoted to verse, to words dense and encapsulated. It ends today. 

There is, as far as I know, no National Essay Month, no time set aside for the genre I know best, the one which at its root means “to try.”

The essay is the right genre for me, earnest scribbler that I am, and it is, I think, good for many of us. At the very least it’s a genre most of us know. Who hasn’t written a letter or report? Or proofread a college essay?

And so, on this last day of National Poetry Month,  I’m thinking of one of my favorite essays. Read it if you have time — it only takes three minutes — and tell me, is it not poetry in prose?

With Its Diadem

With Its Diadem

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I took an evening walk last night, one week after the eclipse. Without thinking I headed west, toward the setting sun. 

I think of our nearest star differently now, having seen it, well, naked is not exactly the word. Exposed isn’t either. Transformed? Chastened? I won’t use Emily Dickinson’s phrase “without its diadem” because a corona is a diadem if ever I saw one.

It’s more that the sun and I (and millions of other people) now have a special bond. We’ve been through something together. So when I watch it sink low in the sky and redden the horizon, I think of when the horizon reddened in every direction. I remember the cool air and the bird song and the glowing white ring.

It’s nice to be reminded of all that.

(Photo: NASA)