A Walker in the Suburbs

After the earthquake struck Tuesday, all I wanted to do was go home. Home would be its usual chaotic, cozy self. Things would be right where I left them.

Of course, the earthquake shook our suburb, too, and apparently shook harder here than it did downtown, shattering one of our nicest pieces of wedding china (a covered vegetable dish used more for storing receipts than serving mashed potatoes–that will teach us to use the good stuff instead of the everyday) and shaking down the closet where I store magazines, photographs, the girls’ school work and other memorabilia.

I snapped a photo before I tidied up, took it to remind myself what a pack rat I am and how much cleaning and organizing I need to do — but also to certify the power of nature. An earthquake, as we are all too aware after the tragedy in Japan, can rip apart an entire society. But even a 5.8 quake like ours exposes fault lines and weaknesses. An earthquake reverses order.

After the last big tremblor in Virginia in 1897, I read, the water swirled the opposite way out of the springs. And if my closet holds any lesson, it is this one: After an earthquake, what was once on the bottom is now on the top, and what was once on the top is now on the bottom. It is a reversal, a correction.

It was shortly before 2 p.m. and I was finishing lunch at my desk when I heard what sounded like a bunch of people running and jumping above my ground-floor office in D.C. This didn’t make sense, though, because I had never heard footfall before from the upper levels. Before I could process that fact, the entire building began swaying, and I realized that as unbelievable as it was, we were most likely having an earthquake.

By the time I got outside I realized I had left my purse, my phone and all my work inside. All I brought with me was a Diet Coke — not the most practical item for bail out but (apparently) what I had in my hand.

There are cracks in the Washington Monument, damage to the National Cathedral and fallen masonry all over town. It is not what you expect when you go to work on a perfect late summer day. It is, therefore, a good reminder of the preciousness of life.

Today is the last Wednesday of July — the annual Pony Swim in Chincoteague. It’s the day when “saltwater cowboys” herd wild ponies across Assateague Channel at low tide for an auction held the next day. Proceeds from pony auctions through the years have helped finance the Chincoteague Volunteer Fire Company. And auctioning off some ponies each year keeps the herd to a manageable 150.

The day I drove home from Chincoteague earlier this month there was an article in the paper about wild horses biting campers, stealing their food and otherwise being canny and uncooperative. I pointed out to folks that the article was about the wild ponies of Maryland; they were the ones who were acting up. The wild ponies of Virginia are probably too busy fending off mosquitoes to get into any further mischief.

I’ve never seen the Pony Swim, but I know the place well enough now that I can imagine it. The sun will shine flat upon the water, the lighthouse will loom picturesquely in the background and the charm of an old custom will unfold in a town that most days, except this day, time seems to have forgotten.

Photo from Chincoteague Facebook page

A new ritual of return: Cleaning out the email inbox. I tried to be diligent this time. I curbed that index finger. It wanted to hit delete far too often. Instead, I took my time and gave every email the time it deserved. From a week’s worth of general announcements, spam and cc’s, I ended up with a handful of genuine must-attend-to’s. Now, the real work begins…

When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll remember scenes like this.

It is the elemental other, where land and ocean meet, and since arriving here yesterday I have pondered the wonder of it all. When you have been often to the shore and you arrive again, you think, ah, here it is, the smell of the sea and the roar of the surf and you forget about the fundamental difference of this landscape, its churning activity, the drama of two worlds coming together. It takes a long walk to absorb it all. I’ve had two of those now. Let the absorption begin.

More than a week later, I’m still pondering my high school reunion. I replay conversations, especially ones that pierced the shell of convention (occupation, children or — gulp — grandchildren) and ventured into some place deep and true.

What I realized (and I knew this all the time, I suspect) is that having gone through high school (and in the case of some folks, grammar school) together automatically took us to a place deep and true. One woman and I reminisced about the beanies we wore in eighth grade. I reminded another about how her mother would always honk the car horn every time we rounded a curve or crested a hill when she was driving us to horseback riding lessons in seventh grade. The hostess of our Friday night picnic surprised me with a photo of us and other neighborhood kids taken one Easter when we were about six years old. We lived on the same street then.

In my hometown, I am not just a mother or an employee or a neighbor. I am the person I was before the roles began.

It stands for Ride Around the Pioneers in One Day, and it’s happening right now in northwest Montana. Tom and his brothers and hundreds of other riders are riding 130 miles through the Pioneer Mountains to raise money for Camp Mak-a-Dream, a camp for children and families affected by cancer. This is the 10th anniversary of RATPOD. Last year it grossed $1.7 million for the camp and has become such a hot event that registration fills up in 20 minutes.

By our reckoning the riders have passed the scenic byway turn-off at Mile 14, they’ve moved beyond the breakfast stop at Mile 30 and pushed up the 6- to 8-percent grade to the Crystal Park turnout at 8,000 feet. Soon, if not already, they will be flying downhill for a full 20 minutes, past the town of Divide and along the Big Hole River. They will cruise to Wise River Mercantile, where they’ll have lunch. After that comes a watermelon break at Mile 85 and an ice cream and pie stop at Mile 107. Twenty-three miles later, they’ll end up where they started, in Dillon, Montana.

I’m not there, of course, but I know enough of the landscape to breathe the tang in the air, to see in my mind’s eye the lodgepole pine, the alpine meadows and the big, big sky. We here at sea level, we ride with them in spirit.

Photo © Lucy Capehart, 2002

The office in summer — trying to bring the beach in. I wear a bright shirt of tie-dyed-style orange, pink and white. It is light enough to be billowy. It could be wafting in an Atlantic breeze. Instead it is pulled up to a desk. Will it give me the beach-induced calm to make the most of this day, to whittle the to-do list and start the story?

Devotees of meditation say if you practice it long enough you can take yourself to the beach in an instant. Mentally, that is. You can whisk yourself away from the dentist’s drill, the airless waiting rooms of life. I am working on these skills. And today, I’m counting on the tie-dyed shirt.