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Smooth Re-entry

Smooth Re-entry

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Our lake week is over, and what a wonderful week it was. So many laughs and memories. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

But the drive home meant the usual traffic, and by the time we reached the house it was hot and sticky, a typical 2024 summer day, heat index well into the 90s.

And then we stepped inside.The house was spic-and-span, a cool 77 degrees, classical music on the radio, courtesy of our friend and house-sitter. The parakeets were chirping. There was even some food in the fridge. It was the smoothest re-entry I’ve had in years. 

(Unpacking is always easier than packing. Above: a fraction of the stuff I took along.)

Knowing the Way

Knowing the Way

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It’s not something I think about often, but it struck me this morning, as I returned from a walk that took me down neighborhood streets and back home through the woods, that I know the way, that I have this. 

I know the path begins beyond the short guardrails in the cul-de-sac, that it winds down to the creek through ferns and knotweed. 

I know that you can cross the creek easily there, because it’s low and there are rocks to help you. 

And I know that if I turn left at the end of that trail, I’ll find the main path, which takes me back to the street.

It’s a skill older than language: knowing the way home.

Our Own World Again

Our Own World Again

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I woke before dawn this morning, early enough to see the yard emerge from darkness, early enough to hear the first birds calling. 

Speaking of birds, the day after we arrived home, I spied a male cardinal at the feeder. A common occurrence. But I saw him with new eyes. 

Do they have cardinals in Madeira or mainland Portugal? I saw none. So I imagined seeing a cardinal for the first time, resplendent in his red coat. Gleaming red coat at this time of year. 

Here is a gorgeous bird I take for granted, and I’m seeing him as if for the first time. Isn’t that what we hope travel will give us, the ability to see our own world again — only with fresh eyes?

(Turns out, I don’t have many good cardinal photos. I need to remedy that.)

Tied in Knots

Tied in Knots

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I’ve just spend a considerable chunk of time watching crochet tutorials on Youtube. These are usually hosted by cheery British ladies with plump fingers and colorful yarns. They pronounce crochet with the accent on the first syllable. I bet they would make a good cup of tea.

But they did not ease the frustration that was building as I once again had trouble starting my project. I’m a quick crocheter once I get past the first few rows. But those first few rows give me fits every time. This go-around I decided to understand what I was doing rather than just bumble along. 

I stopped and started half a dozen times. I worked on my slip knot. But I was determined to keep doing it until I mastered this. I have no idea whether this back-to-basics approach will benefit the finished product. All I know is that I was tied in knots for a while… but I’m untangled now. 

In Person

In Person

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It’s been four years since a virus from China began to enter our consciousness, slowly at first (it was so far away!) but eventually spreading around the world and taking over our lives.

Last night I hosted book group at my house, the first in-person meeting here since 2019. It felt good to sit in each other’s presence, to laugh and talk and drink tea, to plan for the future. The four years we spent on Zoom were good in their own way, but I’m glad we’re back in person. 

Four years have brought other changes. In the past, I would rush home from work to vacuum, dust and bake, barely finishing the prep before the first guest knocked on the door.  Tonight’s do was different. I had time to wash out the delicate Belleek sugar bowl and cream pitcher, to arrange squares of dark chocolate on a plate in honor of the book we discussed — Bittersweet.  I even had a chance to look over the notes I’d taken on the book. 

Sometimes I miss the hectic life I used to lead. And sometimes (less often) I miss Zoom. But I didn’t miss either of them last night.

(In person in a bookstore — with a friend, of course.)

Beauty and Bane

Beauty and Bane

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December dawns gray and cold. A new month. I began the last one in an old house by the sea. I begin this one in the two-story suburban home I’ve lived in for decades. A garbage truck trundles by as I write. It’s the third garbage truck I’ve heard this morning.

Ah, the suburbs! The beauty and the bane of them. I love the trees and solitude. I deplore the sameness and isolation.

But that’s an old story. The new story is this: Here I am. 

Give a Little Whistle

Give a Little Whistle

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At home it announces itself with a steady crescendo of gurgles and hisses and a click when the water has boiled. Almost foolproof.

At Fort Worden, I heated water the old-fashioned way. I filled the pot, flipped the top down and waited for the whistle. Ingenious … but not foolproof. For instance, you could (and I did) forget to close the contraption. I quickly learned — no top, no whistle.

You could also (theoretically) leave the kettle on until the water vaporized and the pot was singed. But for that you would have to ignore the whistle, which is mighty difficult to do. 

I’m glad to be back with my electric teakettle. But the whistling version is fun, too … maybe the original smart appliance? 

Eastward

Eastward

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The question is, would you know it if you didn’t know it, know that here in Seattle you’re near the western edge of this wide continent?

I always think I can tell — something in the quality of the light or the casualness of the architecture or the philosophies of the people. 

But it’s probably just what I overlay on the place, based on visits and attitudes (dreams) about the West Coast I’ve had since I was as a kid. 

This afternoon I fly home, take the eastward journey, which is often faster. It’s the prevailing westerlies that make it so, but today I think it will be the magnet of home pulling me back where I belong.

Bouncing Back

Bouncing Back

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In the saga of returns, there is the personal return, as in people flying home to their primary residence. And then there is the return of the residence itself, when it comes into its own again. 

This old house was well cared for during our absence by the girls, who came over with their families to mow the lawn, water the plants and sometimes just to hang out. But last night was when it fully arrived. 

It was just a family birthday party, but these can be pretty lively. There were the toddlers shrieking, a baby cruising, and the oldest, the birthday boy himself, savoring the special meal and gifts. Hanging over it all, the parakeets sent out their joyous squawks. 

Now, more than ever, we’re back.

(The trampoline usually plays a part in these big family gatherings. Photo: CCG.)

A Souvenir

A Souvenir

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I returned home with an unwelcome souvenir: a case of Covid, the first time for me, or at least the first I’ve known about. Luckily, I didn’t contract the virus until a couple of days before departure, and it didn’t fully reveal itself until I got home. Since home is the best place to be when under the weather, I’ve been more reconciled to the trip’s end.

On the other hand, I miss the energy that usually accompanies a return: the joy of hugging family I’ve missed, the bustle of doing the laundry — mine is still piled up, optimistically, in front of the washing machine.

I’ll spend the next few days sipping Gatorade, nibbling crackers … and dreaming about where I was last month. 

(Portree, on the Isle of Skye)