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Alive on the Page

Alive on the Page

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I’ve been reading Oliver Sacks’ Everything in its Place: First Loves and Last Tales, a posthumous collection of essays by a master of that form. That he was a master of so much else — neurology, weightlifting, chemistry — ripples out from every page.

Sacks loved to swim, to walk in botanical gardens, to study ferns in Central Park, and the book contains short chapters on these topics and many more, easy explorations in the personal essay form. They move from the particular to the general, are informal and discursive. 

Sacks is most well-known for his book Awakenings, which chronicles his treatment of patients with a rare sleeping sickness, people who had missed whole decades of life then woke up and found themselves once again in the land of the living. 

Awake is how I feel after reading the work of this scientist and writer, gone almost 10 years but alive to me now thanks to this final, exhilarating collection. 

(Sacks’ signature courtesy Wikipedia)

For Charlie

For Charlie

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Today I note the passing of Charlie Clark, journalist extraordinaire. I met Charlie our first month in Northern Virginia. His wife is a former colleague and dear friend of one of my best buddies. Charlie and I had writing in common, too, so when we bumped into each other, we traded tales. 

Charlie was an energetic reporter, a storyteller, a lover of words and community. He brought the two together in his “Our Man in Arlington” column for the Falls Church News Press, which he wrote for years. In his last few weeks he interviewed philanthropist David Rubenstein and covered a court hearing on the “missing middle” debate in Arlington. 

In addition to his day job and his column, Charlie wrote a novel, several books on local history, and a biography of George Washington’s step-grandson. When I planned to leave the world of paid employment, I asked Charlie for advice. He encouraged me to take the plunge — and was a model of productivity right up to the end.  

Today I’m mourning Charlie and thinking of the verses he always included in his holiday card, funny couplets like “have more fun in 2021.” He left us wanting more in 2024. 

Rest in peace, Charlie. 

Good Words

Good Words

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Today is the birthday of Eleanor Roosevelt, mother, teacher, writer, wife, first lady and activist, whose 2020 biography was unputdownable. 

One of Eleanor’s many noteworthy traits was her capacity for growth. She was not afraid to plunge in, assess, take action, and, when necessary, reverse course. She was ahead of her time. 

Perhaps this quotation helps explain some of her courage: “You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you,” she said, “if you realized how seldom they do.”

Good words to take into the day. 

(Writing about Eleanor gives me an excuse to feature a Washington, D.C. photo.)

Hairy Coo

Hairy Coo

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What do you get when you put 16 people and one tour guide into a small van? If you’re lucky something like what we had these last three days with Stewart. 

This guy took a random assemblage of humans (albeit some of them related) from three continents and made us into a community with routines, in-jokes and a quest: We had to find a “hairy coo” — a Highland cow — not only for the six-year-old among us but for all the other lovers of these gentle, shaggy beasts. 

Stewart backed up the van and practically drove us into the field where a few of the cattle were grazing. Photos were snapped … and snapped …. and snapped. It’s a testament to these creatures’ docile natures that they put up with it all.

As for our tour group, we have scattered to the four winds, to a lot more places than this famous sign at John O’Groats, the northern-most point in mainland Britain.

Fellow Travelers

Fellow Travelers

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This afternoon, on the way to see a rock formation called the Old Man of Storr, we ran into the young people of Aalst, a group of Belgians we met on the way up Ben Nevis. We had run into them later that same day, hiking back from the visitor’s center, so this was actually our third meeting. 

It’s not the first time on this trip that we’ve run into people we just met. We sat beside a couple from Philadelphia on the train from Oban and ran into them again near Ben Nevis. And there are others.

Traveling is like that. You meet people you think you’ll never see again — and then bump into them the very next day. Fellow travelers can make all the difference. 

A P.S. to this post: we met our Belgian friends again the very next day. 

He Died Walking

He Died Walking

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I don’t read the newspaper obituaries everyday, but on Sunday one particular one caught my eye: it was about Esteban Volkov, who died at the age of 97 in Mexico. He was the grandson of Leon Trotsky.  

A mini history lesson, this article describes how Trotsky fled Russia after a power struggle with Stalin following Lenin’s death. Volkov’s father, a political supporter, was imprisoned and killed, and Volkov’s mother, Trotsky’s daughter, committed suicide. Volkov eventually ended up in Mexico City, living with his exiled grandfather. 

Volkov returned from school one day to find his grandfather dying in the arms of his wife and a security guard. After escaping assassins other times, Trotsky was killed with an icepick by a man who pretended to be his admirer. Young Volkov wasn’t safe, either, once hiding under his bed as a gunman fired shot after shot into his mattress. 

Volkov promised his grandfather he’d never go into politics, becoming an engineer instead. But after the fall of the Soviet Union, Volkov, by then retired, opened a museum about Trotsky in Mexico City. It now hosts 50,000 visitors a year. 

The obituary has a noteworthy conclusion, as Volkov’s daughter describes her father’s many positive traits: “He liked nature, mountains, the ocean and loved music, with Shostakovich and Stravinsky his favorites. He never stopped walking and even died while walking, outside his nursing home.” He died while walking, three years shy of his 100th birthday. That’s something to aspire to.

(Volkov, lower right, with his grandparents. Photo courtesy Wikirouge.)

 

It’s Baaaack!

It’s Baaaack!

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Where to start, except to say that this place I once lived, this place I once feared had fallen prey to the emptiness and ennui that plagues many cities these days, has not only survived, it’s thrived. 

New York City is back … and it’s better than ever! Or at least that’s my humble opinion, influenced no doubt by a spot-on day of walking from east side to west side, uptown to down. Others might disagree, might say it’s dirtier, more crime-ridden. And I wouldn’t argue, given my tourist perspective. 

But as a place of great energy and drive, where people of all types rub shoulders with each other, where sirens blare, horns honk, street music sings, it cannot be beat.  

Fellow Travelers

Fellow Travelers

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Some emerge just past dawn for their morning stroll, eyes blinking, still taking in the light. They leave early for the office or they can’t sleep or they feel dutiful getting in their steps early. 

Others require a cup of tea or other sustenance, so you might find them in the 8 or 9 o’clock hours.

Still others just squeak by calling their daily perambulation a morning walk. They start at 11 a.m. and return just in time for lunch. 

What all of these people have in common, though, is that they are regulars. I see them most every day, depending on when I hit “the track” (also known as the main street of my neighborhood). Some of them I know well, others only by sight. But they are my companions, my fellow travelers, and I honor them all.

Wandering Home

Wandering Home

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As much as I extoll the practice, walking in the suburbs is largely for exercise and mental refreshment, for perspective. It’s difficult to run errands or visit folks without jumping in the car.

But yesterday I had time to amble through the woods to meet a friend, who lives on the other side of a county forest.

On the way there I had my eye on the clock, picking up the pace to reach her house more or less when I said I would. But on the way home I savored the green splendor of the stroll, birds ruffling the underbrush, stream water pouring over and around a flat rock.

It felt like rain, clammy and portentous. I took my time, reveled in the mood and the moment. I wandered home.

Wiki Woods

Wiki Woods

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It has much in common with a wiki site, this woods I walk in; it’s the work of many. The invasive plant eradication I mentioned yesterday is part of it. But even the paths themselves are forged and kept alive by many footfalls. Given the amount of undergrowth out there, it wouldn’t take long to lose the trail. 

And then there are the bridges, a motley crew if ever there was one: A clutch of bamboo poles, handcrafted spans made from planks and two-by-fours, and then the places where it seems people just laid down a few pieces of lumber. 

Some of the bridges are for crossing Little Difficult Run, which meanders through the woods, steep-banked in spots. But others are for navigating the hidden springs and muddy parts of the trail. All of them necessary. All of them welcome. 

It takes a village to make a woods walk.