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That Other Tuesday

That Other Tuesday

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It’s not just the date that’s the same; it’s the weather. Just a bit cooler, but with all the promise of a warm, low-humidity day.

And it’s the day of the week, too.  September 11, 2011, was also a Tuesday.

If each day of the week has a unique flavor, a character of its own, Tuesday is when the weekly routine has begun to buoy us up again.  We’ve made it through Monday. We can do another day; yes, we can. And if so, then we can even make it through the week.

And so we plunge ahead with renewed dedication. (Or at least that’s the ideal.)

Tuesday, September 11, 2001, was not such a day.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012, will not be, either.

A Year Ago Today

A Year Ago Today

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It was an ordinary late summer afternoon, silky air, the sort of day you wished you didn’t have to spend inside. And, as it turned out, many of us didn’t have to.  Because at 1:50 p.m. we were turned from our homes and offices onto the street by a 5.8 magnitude earthquake.

Though we later learned we should have sheltered in place under our desks (ignoring every protective instinct we had), we headed outside.  And for the next few hours the streets of D.C. were filled with panicked and then (once we got used to the idea) bemused office dwellers.

I had leapt from my chair without purse or cell phone but (strangely) with the Diet Coke I was holding when the building began to shake. For the next hour I frantically tried to reach family members on borrowed phones. At home I found broken china and a closet ankle deep in photos, papers and clothes that had been shaken off their shelves.

The earthquake happened a year ago today. A year of record heat and drought — with the occasional hurricane and derecho thrown in.

The tremblor seemed strange at the time. But strange is becoming commonplace.



The “D.C. Earthquake Devastation” photo that made the rounds on the Internet last year.

Twenty-one!

Twenty-one!

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Claire arrived two weeks later than we thought she would, waiting for a break in the heat wave (back when heat waves meant temperatures in the 90s instead of the 100s) to make her debut.

She was a cuddly baby, a tempestuous toddler and, well, we’ll just say a lively teenager.  Now she’s a lovely, caring, accomplished young woman heading into her senior year of college. And today she turns 21.

Back when I wrote parenting articles and the children were younger, I would routinely mine their antics for anecdotes. I don’t do that anymore, of course. But on some days I can’t help but note how proud I am of them, how they continue to amaze me, how very grateful I am to be their mother.

Today is one of those days.

Olympic Stories

Olympic Stories

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The warm-up visualization our yoga instructor led us through last night took us to London. “Flow east across the ocean. Look down, see the Thames as it curves through the city. How do you know it’s the Thames?” he asked. And then, with laughter in his voice, he quickly answered: “It’s the only dark thing you see.”

“It’s late there,” he continued. “But the pubs are still full. The eyes of the world are on this city.”

Maybe it was the drama in his voice, maybe it was the mid-summer doldrums, but whatever it was, it made me very excited that the Olympics are starting today.

I remember writing about the ice dancing event in Vancouver in in one of my first posts in this blog. Have I really been writing almost daily here for that long?

The Olympics, like any event that happens every two years (or every four) helps us measure time. The music, the uniforms, who wins and who loses, where we lived and who we watched it with — all these wrap themselves into our memories and become part of the experience. Watching the Olympics unites us in a good way. We are riveted by competition, not by tragedy.

It’s eight hours until the opening ceremonies. Let the games — and the stories — begin.

Anthony Page holds the Olympic torch in front of Big Ben. Photo: London 2012 Olympics Official Site.

First Race

First Race

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This morning, Claire competes in her first road race. She’s been running for a couple of months now, and she’s ready to compete. And I’m excited she’s doing it. Running meant a lot to me when I was her age; it gave me confidence that I, a klutz, could actually do something athletic.

Claire has never had that problem. She is naturally coordinated; she makes ice skating and rollerblading look easy. But this is still a big deal because it is such a disciplined and regulated activity. It is the sort of thing one does to push one’s self. And as such, is a good illustration of the kind of person Claire is becoming.

So this morning when the race begins, and Claire feels that little flutter in her stomach that’s reserved for the new things we do in life, I’ll be feeling it with her.

Meanwhile, in My Other Life

Meanwhile, in My Other Life

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Today is the day. At 10 a.m., the Supreme Court justices will file into the Court and hand down their decision on the Affordable Care Act. For the last few weeks many of us here in our nation’s capital, especially those of us who work in a law school whose professors have been  involved in analyzing the legislation, have been waiting impatiently for this moment.

Will the justices uphold the act or strike it down? Will they banish only the individual mandate, the part that tells us we must buy health insurance or pay a fine? And if they do that, how will the rest of the act stand (the so called “severability question”)?  And what of the Medicaid part of the ruling? How will that play out?

This time last summer I was reporting and writing an article on this topic.  So I’ve followed the challenge through the lower courts and now to this ultimate one. Like much of official Washington, I was riveted by the oral arguments in March. The constitutionalism of health care legislation is not a specialty of
mine, but after spending a month interviewing experts and writing about it, I learned  enough to understand and appreciate the issues.

Which makes me wish I had time to write about every major issue facing this nation. The more you learn, I think, the more you care.

Outdoor Performance

Outdoor Performance

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A summer evening at Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts. Spreading a blanket on the lawn, sharing wine and conversation as the sun slants through the trees. Birds in the rafters, fireflies  in the air.

For all good suburbanites the experience begins with the drive there, and this one was better than average. Crowell, Brown’s Mill, Beulah — back roads that made me feel like I was out in the country, which Wolf Trap once was.

Outdoor performance has a character of its own, the crowds diffused by the presence of grass and trees and the high steady murmur of the wind. At a certain point in the experience you almost forget what you’re there for. But then the curtain rises, the lights come up, and the performance begins. It’s then that you remember you’re there for the dance, the music, the play. (Last night it was Ballet Hispanico, a beautiful and improbable blend of ballet, modern and Latin dance.)  It’s then that the illusion and the reality merge.

Photo: Wolf Trap

Grasping the Moment

Grasping the Moment

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There was a last-minute offer to grill, a request for chicken, zucchini and tomatoes, all of which I gladly supplied. And then there was transporting the grill, the real thing, the Weber, with its bag of charcoal.

The real grill takes time to heat up so there were games of catch with Copper, plenty of ins and outs through the backdoor. People appeared on the deck, talked on their phones and then vanished back inside. Earlier we had sifted through an album, found a black and white photo of Tom from his long-hair days. This was passed around and admired. We opened some hard cider, marveling at its tang and effervescence.

Two more friends appeared, and now it was an impromptu party. I bounced on the trampoline, listening to songs I’d just bought: “Teach Your Children Well,” “September,” “Your Song,” “Morning has Broken.”

My troubles left me alone for this blissful, golden evening. The late light glancing the trunks of the oaks, the hydrangea blooming, voices from inside, laughing. People, young people, talking about music and jokes and places we don’t know and never care to find out. Someone could have pulled out a guitar, strummed a few chords, and I wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe next time. It was life renewing itself. And I was pulled along by it, glad for the ride.

Day Off

Day Off

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The weather forecast looked good. And there is the birthday thing. So today seemed as good a day as any to play hookey.

Not that I’ve done much so far. Written. Talked. Opened email to find greetings from friends and family. A walk still to come.

A catbird is singing.  The day lilies starting to bloom. The new climbing rose surging skyward.

There is a sense of pleasant rightness in the air.

Decoration Day

Decoration Day

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We have no flagpole holder, no siding on our house to hold one, and the front of our house is obscured by large trucks. Still, I walked to the mailbox a minute ago to stick a small flag in its arm.  It’s Decoration Day, Memorial Day’s first name, what it was called when it was established in 1868 for the purpose of decorating the graves of fallen soldiers.

No longer May 30, Memorial Day is the last Monday of the month — a day for cookouts, pool openings and ushering in the summer. But long ago (and in some places still) it was a day for a solemn parade and a trip to the cemetery.

Here is a Decoration Day parade from Brownsville, Texas, in 1916, photographed by Robert Runyon and downloaded from the Library of Congress’ American Memory project.

(Photo: The Robert Runyon Photograph Collection, [image number, e.g.,
00199], courtesy of
The Center for American History, The University of Texas at Austin.)