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The Whiting of the Green

The Whiting of the Green

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On Saturday I spotted signs of spring, snowdrops and green shoots, that pinkish haze that appears in the tree tops, proof the old oaks are coming to life.

It struck me as I strolled that I might be imagining the greening branches, the swollen buds, that maybe they were like the puddles of water that appear on a hot summer tarmac.

Because today, St. Patty’s Day, I’m not so sure. It looks like a foot of snow outside. It’s the whiting of the green. And for some reason, I welcome it.

It’s such a quiet, dutiful dousing, wet and heavy, clinging to each twig and bough. It stills me — and fills me with wonder, that such meteorlogical marvels can exist this far into the greening season.

Spring will come soon, no way it cannot. The shoots and buds are biding their time. But for now, on this day devoted to green, we have a different kind of beauty. It’s white.

A Mystery in Real Time

A Mystery in Real Time

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Has there ever been such an aeronautical mystery? Of course there has, I tell myself. There was Amelia Earhart. But she had no transponders, no black box. When I mention Amelia Earhart to my kids, they draw a blank. That mystery is forgotten.

But the mystery of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 is not. How could it be? Cable news blares it almost nonstop, and there are newspaper articles on the quality of the coverage and the amount of speculation the story forces on reporters.

Today’s leads are some of the most dramatic. The plane flew for hours after the transponder was turned off. It appears that the aircraft was deliberately diverted, says the Malaysian prime minister. I drag out an old atlas, refresh my geography of the Malay peninsula and Indian Ocean. I catch up on a week’s worth of facts and rumors. I consider how much this seems like a made-for-TV movie.

And then, like most people in the plugged-in, news-aware world, I wonder: How does a huge jetliner disappear? Could it possibly have landed? Where did it go? Where is it now? And will we ever, ever find it?

Backyard Moguls

Backyard Moguls

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It has been noted elsewhere that throughout most of these Winter Games, the temperature in Sochi, Russia, has been higher than in many parts of the United States. And the major weather delay there so far has been due not to blizzard but to fog.

Still, to the viewer back home, the snow-peaked Causcasus, the high-tech ski suits and the sound of cowbells can only mean one thing: It’s cold!

So, I pretend.

Olympic viewing has also skewed my sense of place. When I look at the lumpy snow in my backyard I don’t see wind-blown drifts. Instead I see moguls.

This is a temporary phenomenon. I don’t expect it to last.

Pearl Harbor Day

Pearl Harbor Day

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Today is the anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, but for people much younger than I am, it’s simply December 7. September 11, 2001, pretty much took care of what time and attrition hadn’t already.

This is not altogether a bad thing. How many days of infamy should one year hold?

But because my father is a World War II veteran, and because I shared his pain recently when a nurse at the VA Hospital had no idea what “D Day” meant, I feel some sadness as Pearl Harbor Day vanishes from the collective memory.

At least this shouldn’t happen until everyone directly affected by it is gone. That’s not the way it is, I know, especially as our national attention span grows shorter by the day. But that’s the way it ought to be.

Over the River …

Over the River …

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And through the woods … traveling to the Thanksgiving feast has never been easy. But here in the megalopolis it’s taken on a new degree of craziness.

A nor’easter is expected to dump anywhere from two to four inches of rain in the next 24 hours. Snow and ice have not been ruled out. Flooding is a possibility. Traffic jams are guaranteed.

To gather at grandma’s all you needed was a sleigh and a team of willing horses. To reach family and friends at the modern table requires strategic thinking (should I leave at 2 or 1:30?), nerves of steel (which route through the mountains promises the least chance of snow accumulation?) and a go-for-it attitude.

But go-for-it we will. People are important. Whether they’re over the river and through the woods — or up I-95.

What Died with Him

What Died with Him

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It’s hard to say anything about President John F. Kennedy that hasn’t already been said. There was even a newspaper article about the pink suit and pill box hat Jacqueline Kennedy wore in Dallas that day. (They have been preserved, complete with blood stains, not to be displayed for another 50 years.)

What struck me last week, when I watched the two-part PBS special about JFK, is how young he was, how young we were.

Young and innocent.

This was before Watergate, Columbine, 9/11, Newtown. This is before we lost face, lost hope.

It’s as if he embodied all the promise of a younger nation — and all that died with him on November 22, 1963.


(Tourists visit Kennedy’s grave in Arlington Cemetery.)

150 Years and One Day Ago Today…

150 Years and One Day Ago Today…

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… President Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address. Yesterday’s coverage of the event noted that the speech was 272 words and it took Lincoln only two minutes to deliver it. It was preceded by Edward Everett’s two-hour oration, which is remembered now only because of what followed it: 10 perfectly crafted sentences that conveyed a nation’s aspirations and ideals.

One score and three years ago, I wrote about the Gettysburg Address. About how I memorized it in school, promptly forgot it and wished I had remembered it (among many other things).

Memorization seems even quainter now than it did in 1990. Why remember words when you can look them up on your smart phone? 

Perhaps the reason I gave so long ago is still true today. Learning a passage or a poem “by heart” liberates us, I said. “Once we know the words we carry their wisdom around with us; we are freed from the printed page.”

Lincoln’s words liberated us — in more ways than one. 

Marathon Girl

Marathon Girl

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Her first achievement was signing up, a marathon of its own, requiring hours online and the drive to submit her name ahead of tens of thousands of others.

And then there was the training, which began in March and involved a byzantine schedule of long runs and short runs building up to yesterday’s 26.2 miles (excuse me, 26.6 miles, according to her Garmin).

For some reason, she decided that the training should also include a triathlon, a swim-bike-run event that left her with a sprained ankle less than two months before the big race. But she pushed through that, too, with an air boot and lots of determination.

And finally, yesterday, all the hard work and determination paid off.  Not much more than a year and a half since she started running, Claire successfully completed the Marine Corps Marathon.

There were many moments I’ll remember, ones I didn’t photograph because I was too busy hugging her, but this is one that will stick with me.

A Walk and a Chase

A Walk and a Chase

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Day before yesterday, as often happens on Wednesdays, I was a walker in the city. And because it was the first full day of shutdown (many federal employees having come in on Tuesday to sign papers before being furloughed), I strolled through an eerily quiet D.C.

I angled down New Jersey to the Capitol and walked around it to First Street, N.E. The police were in full force and I remember thinking, this is probably not a good place to be today.

But the blue sky and mild air drew me along, down the hill to the Botanical Gardens (closed), past the American Indian Museum (closed), the Air and Space (closed) and across the Mall itself. Even the grass was closed.

Finally, crossing Constitution and Pennsylvania, angling up Indiana to E Street and the courts (not yet closed), I found people again, and some of the liveliness of a typical weekday afternoon.

Yesterday, as I heard police sirens racing down Constitution from my office (on lockdown), searching for news of the shooting at the Capitol (also on lockdown) I thought about Wednesday’s route.

Twenty-four hours later and I would have been crouching behind a tree.

(Yesterday’s car chase along Constitution Avenue passed a shuttered National Archives, pictured here on a more typical afternoon.)

 

Wedding Day

Wedding Day

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There’s something in the air. Last weekend I learned of two engagements. Today I know of two weddings. One, a colleague’s, is downtown. The other is across the street. Literally. 
All week long the dust has been flying. The gardeners delivered mulch, the tent people delivered a tent (one something like this), and other rental outfits dropped off chairs and tables and a porta-potty (which I’ve heard through the grapevine is a deluxe model).
It’s the wedding of our neighbor’s father — not an event one usually associates with a parent, but delightful when it happens. 
We neighbors have the smallest of supporting roles: We will put up with the parking and the noise. We will medicate our dogs if necessary. And we will send silent cheers their way. 
I may not feel this way tomorrow morning, but right now I can say: It’s good to have a wedding in the ‘hood.
(Photo: Fairytaletentsandevents.com)