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Mini Reunion

Mini Reunion

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The last high school reunion we made a vow: Get together more often than every 10 years. And now, only two years later, we’re making good on our promise. Tonight, 35 proud (!) graduates of Henry Clay High School in Lexington, Kentucky, will gather at a local watering hole to check in with each other again.

Some of these people were good friends of mine in eleventh and twelfth grades (when I transferred to a new school because my family moved a few blocks away). Others are acquaintances. But all of us shared a moment in time, and it was apparent at the last reunion how much of a bond that is.

With my youngest child just out of high school now I conjure up memories of my own secondary school experience, some pleasant and some painful. But all of them increasingly precious as the years roll on.

In Miniature

In Miniature

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A view of the Capitol Fireworks I’d never seen before, from across the Potomac and down a few miles. The fireworks in miniature but just as splendid.

The spectators were a mini United Nations; they spoke Spanish, Arabic, Chinese, Tagalog (maybe). Babies toddled, parents chased, teenagers stared not at the sky but at their phones. Some people sat on blankets, others on the grass. Some had packed elaborate spreads, but more had simply wandered over with a snack and a soda.

Like the fireworks, the venue was a miniature, a snapshot of our country now.

The Fourth in History

The Fourth in History

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I know at least two re-enactors at Gettysburg this week, one fighting for the North and one for the South. And I remember the school trips each of the girls took to the battlefield in sixth grade, playing out roles in their own Picketts’ Charge.

There’s a battlefield site minutes from here where another battle was fought, the Battle of Ox Hill (or the Union name, the Battle of Chantilly) and I think I’ll go there today. It’s a place I’ve passed several hundred times and always meant to see. It’s tucked between malls, hidden in plain sight, a bit of history almost buried by modern life.

But it’s still there, not quite five acres. And visiting it seems like a good way to celebrate the day, here in the Old Dominion.

One Year and Counting

One Year and Counting

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Suzanne left for Africa a year ago today. She packed a large bag and a small bag and slipped out by rail to Philadelpia. (“That was a very emotional goodbye for a trip from Washington to Philadelphia,” another passenger said as they were boarding the train.)

From Philly she went to New York, Belgium and Benin. For the last ten months she’s made her home in a small village on the edge of the Sahel. She teaches school, and this summer is working in a girls’ camp and at a health clinic. She is completely immersed in village life. She loves the people and they love her. She’s the happiest person I know. 

The months that led up to her departure crept by in slow motion, like time does on a roller coaster inching up that first hill. Now we’re on the downward slope. It hardly seems possible that Year One has passed. It now seems entirely possible to make it through Year Two.

Still, I seem to miss her more and more. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays and, ten days ago, a graduation — all without her. The phone keeps us together, a family of the air, and that will have to do.  But now that she’s almost halfway done, I’m allowing myself to dream of a time when we’ll all be together again. Even being on the same continent will do.

Longest Day

Longest Day

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Linger on paths, on beaches and on slopes. Soak in all sunlight, turn not a ray away. It’s the day we have longed for since Christmas. The longest day.

I plan to spend mine on the deck. The work will be done, but al fresco.

Plus, in the current living room configuration, the couch overlooks the backyard. From my morning perch I see sun-dappled oaks, potted begonias and, in the distance, the trampoline and hammock. These are the counterweights, what pulls me through the hours.

There are a lot of hours this longest day. But I can tell they will pass quickly, like water in a rushing stream. All leading to those final golden ones, the ones we have reclaimed from the night.

A Dad, Dancing

A Dad, Dancing

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I’ve learned through the years that dancing is one of the most embarrassing things you can do in front of your adolescent children.

But like so many delightful reversals of age, that all changes. At this point in my life, to see a parent dancing is encouraging and endearing.

Though my father would rather be jitterbugging to Glenn Miller, he recently took his cane out for a spin and bounced along to the Beatles.

So here’s to fathers everywhere, especially fathers dancing.

Graduation Day

Graduation Day

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All you really need is a camera and some tissues. At this point the graduate will take care of everything else. Processing in, taking a seat and, when her name is called, shaking hands and receiving her high school diploma. But to get to this point has been a group effort. It always is.

When I graduated from high school I didn’t understand what the fuss was about. Celia is probably feeling the same way. Milestones don’t mean as much when the years they mark are so few that they  get along fine without them.

But parents of graduates know better. They know that rituals take us from one place to another. They know there are few moments when you can say that one thing has clearly ended and another has clearly begun.

High school graduation is such a moment.

So, hats off to the graduates … and (if I may say so) to their parents, too!

Directions

Directions

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Yesterday on a shuttle bus back to a parking garage outside of Baltimore, I was fiddling with my phone looking for directions to my next destination. As usual, I was a little flummoxed by the gadget. So at some point I put it down and asked the man next to me, who was wearing a blue Hawaiian-print shirt that said “Aloha” on the back, if he knew the way.

“Sure do,” he said, not skipping a beat. “You go to the corner and turn left, and when you hit the traffic circle you take Dulaney Valley Road.”

It sounded simple enough. I took his directions and stuck with them — even though the cars were crawling and I kept wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

But eventually the traffic circle appeared and so did Dulaney Valley Road, and before long I was where I needed to be.

A little story about trusting people instead of machines? Yes, but more than that. Later that day at a luncheon almost an hour away, I saw the man from the bus again. He was sitting at the very next table. His back was to us, but I knew it was him. I could see the “Aloha” on his shirt.

Memorial Day + 1

Memorial Day + 1

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I didn’t put the flag up yesterday. I thought of it at some point but as one errand led to another, I forgot entirely.

It’s not the first time a holiday has become just another Saturday, with home chores and yard chores and no time to celebrate why we have the day off in the first place.

The short time we lived in Groton, Massachusetts, we took part in a Memorial Day observation that ended at the cemetery. Groton is a New England village with big white houses on a hill. The scale of the place, with its graveyard so integral a part of the town, made it difficult to do anything else.

Another argument for small towns. And another argument for flying flags, one small way I could have (but did not!) make Memorial Day matter.

Piping for Police

Piping for Police

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Walked out of the office yesterday and right into a … bagpipe rehearsal. This is one of the wonderful things about city life, the strange little surprises of it.

Since bagpipes in concert often sound like bagpipes in rehearsal, bagpipes in rehearsal sound like, well, you get the idea. Let’s just say I didn’t linger in the alley.

A few paces later it all came together — it was a parade for Police Week. All up and down E Street, uniformed officers were gathering. My walk to Metro Center takes me right past the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, where the names of fallen officers are inscribed.

Turns out that today, May 15, is Peace Officers Memorial Day. A bad day to jaywalk, but a good day to be grateful for police protection. Oh, and a good day for bagpipes, too.

(The view from my alley.)