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Quality of the Air

Quality of the Air

Last week’s heat exploded in a series of storms that set fires, blew circuits and knocked at least one radio station off the air for a few minutes. I was in the car when Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony suddenly went to static. 

But the result is a welcome bout of cool air, especially up here in Maryland where the family has gathered for a week of hiking, kayaking and hanging out.

For me, it’s also time to ponder the quality of air that makes this corner of the state a special place. It’s not just cooler and clearer but, at 2,000 feet of elevation, it’s closer to heaven, too.  

It’s Barbie!

It’s Barbie!

My first one had a bouffant hairdo, not the iconic ponytail. But I loved her just the same. 

I’m talking about Barbie, of course, the doll being celebrated in a new feature film directed by Greta Gerwig.

In honor of the film and of the Barbiemania sweeping the country, I picked up this beauty in the basement. She is, like all my daughters’ dolls, much loved. 

Her hair is matted and her dress is stained, but she is the most intact and presentable Barbie I could find. Many of her buddies are missing arms or have short haphazard haircuts. (The fact that dolls’ hair doesn’t grow back was a fact my kids couldn’t seem to grasp.)

Yes, we have heat domes, indictments and droughts this summer. But we also have … the Barbie movie. 

Dads and Babies

Dads and Babies

On this day of dads, I’m thinking about babies, too, especially one particular baby who is napping upstairs. In fact, it’s only because she’s napping that I’m able to write this post.

On this day of all days, fathers and babies naturally belong together.  Dads (and grandpas) have a way of jostling, tossing, blowing on tummies and just generally making an infant’s day. 

I’m sure this infant would agree. 

Happy 100th!

Happy 100th!

Today would have been Dad’s 100th birthday. He missed it by a little over nine years. I like to think he would have reveled in the day.

A milestone that once seemed impossible to reach is no longer such a feat. I’ve known a couple of centenarians and a slew of nonagenarians. Dad was briefly one of them, almost 91 when he passed away. 

The last time Dad was at our house, he loosened his tie, grabbed his cane and took to the dance floor. It’s a good way to remember him on his birthday … or any day.

Time for Talking

Time for Talking

Thinking about time this morning, about the way it gets parceled out, about its being, in the end, the only true currency. Since time passes more quickly as we age, that should mean our wallets are slimmer, too. 

Yet mine can feel so full! Not everyday, of course, but on days I spend with dear family and friends. Maybe it’s because a good talk puts me in the eternal present, when time-passed and time-yet-to-come slip away and all that matters is the time-that-is, the words and the moment. 

Which means that having as many good talks as possible is a worthy goal. Making (yes!) time for them, enjoying them, and afterwords, savoring their insights and their joy.

For the Women

For the Women

On this, the last day of Women’s History Month, I’m thinking about the women in my life: my daughters, sister and mother, my sisters-in-law, grandmothers, aunts and cousins.

I’m thinking about my women friends, so many dear ones, some I’ve known since high school and college, others of more recent vintage. 

I’m thinking about the women I’ve met on travels around the world, women tackling enormous problems with grace and good cheer.

How strong these women are, kind and capable and funny. Yesterday, still mulling over the tragedy in Nashville and lawmakers’ tepid response to it, I thought, if women were in charge, we would do something about it. 

First, we would not be in the same dire predicaments if women were running the world. But even if we were, we would be facing them differently, more collaboratively and courageously. 

I could be wrong, of course. Maybe women would fall into the same traps that men do. But I don’t think so. And I hope one day we have a chance to find out.

(I met these women from Ntcheu, Malawi, in December 2018.)

A Few Words on Nashville

A Few Words on Nashville

I generally avoid writing about political topics here, thinking that we get enough of those from other sources. But it’s hard stay quiet about the latest school shooting. Three nine-year-olds! A principal, custodian and substitute teacher! People who love children doing their best to keep them safe. 

If we take a long view of history, the 2020s are not an especially violent time. But if we start with the world in which most of us grew up, then the fact that three months into 2023 we’ve already had 130 mass shootings (defined as four or more people killed), or the fact that one in 20 Americans owns at least one AR-15 rifle, a gun designed for military use, it’s hard to argue that our society isn’t violent. 

As it happens, the Washington Post began a series on the AR-15 on Monday. It was the lead story on the Post website … until the Nashville school shooting took that prime position. 

Undoubtedly, many factors are producing these mass shootings: mental illness, social media, a culture of celebrity, a lack of belonging. The people who are perpetrating these acts, often little more than children themselves (though not in this case), are usually loners, people who in their final acts seek the notoriety they hope will make up for the anonymity in which they’ve lived. Banning assault weapons would not solve all of our problems. But it would be a huge start. 

I keep thinking about the Covenant parents sending their children off to school in their plaid uniforms, backpacks and lunchboxes in tow. Those parents were expecting to see their kids back home Monday afternoon. They would have offered them a snack, nagged them about homework, given them a hug. Instead, they had to identify their bodies. 

We are the adults. We’re supposed to keep our children safe. And we’re not doing our job. It’s as simple — and as horrifying — as that. 

Nine Years

Nine Years

I’d gotten so used to its timekeeping that when it finally stopped I thought at first that it was my watch that was off. But no, it was Dad’s. Almost nine years to the day that he left this world (which is today), his watch stopped ticking. 

I felt bereft, as I knew I would. That watch says Dad to me now. I have so few things that were his. I can still remember how it looked on his wrist, peeking out from beneath one of the long-sleeved knit shirts he liked to wear. 

Of course, the watch will keep its prominent position on my dressing table. But its beating heart is gone. 

I tell myself I had it nine years — just like we had Dad for ninety — but it’s never enough, is it? 

The Tableau

The Tableau

When my children were young, I would often end the long days by trying to clear a path to the couch to read or relax for a few minutes before sleep. Often, though, the couch would be occupied.

It might be a stuffed bear, rabbit and dog having tea. Or a bevy of Barbies strutting their stuff. Whatever it was, I hated to dismantle it. I’d been so busy all day doing my job that I hadn’t had time to appreciate the work my girls were doing, play being the work of childhood. But the little scenes were so dear that I knew I would never forget them. 

Now we’ve come full circle. It’s my girls who are coming upon these sweet reminders of their children’s play. Except when the toddlers are over here, which they were yesterday. When I went down to the basement after the flurry of departures, I found a little something the kiddos left behind. 

I’m not sure what’s going on in this tableau, other than knowing it includes a block, a plastic rabbit, Playmobil girl, tiny doll wardrobe on its side covered with a piece of lavender fabric, and red plastic monkey from a game we once had called Barrel of Monkeys. Needless to say, I couldn’t dismantle this right away —and I took a picture before I did.

Megalopolis!

Megalopolis!

Over the weekend, a family birthday party took me to Towson, Maryland. It dawned on me as I was driving that my niece, her husband and their now one-year-old daughter live in the same metropolitan area that I do. I can get in my little gray car and drive for an hour and a half and never leave home.

It sure feels like leaving home, though. Four expressways are involved: the Dulles Toll Road, the Capital Beltway, I-95 and I-695 (the Baltimore Beltway). And the two places have quite a different look and feel. 

The megalopolis is a strange creature, a many-bellied beast of a term. Coined in the middle of the last century, it means two or more adjacent metropolitan areas that share enough transport, economy, resources and ecologies to blur their boundaries and complete a continuous urban area. I see that megalopolis is an outdated term. It’s now megaregion, according to the America 2050 Initiative. 

Given that most humans identify with a house, a block, a town at most, I think we’re in dangerous territory here. Let the geographers have their fun, but as far as I’m concerned I definitely left home on Saturday.

(The Northeast Megaregion at night. Courtesy Wikipedia, which also served as source for some of the information in this post.)