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Category: perspective

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Yankee Doodle Dandy

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It’s July 9. The firecrackers aren’t snapping and the flags aren’t flapping. What remains for me is the memory of James Cagney as George M. Cohan in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I can’t stop humming “It’s a Grand Old Flag,” “Over There” or “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” And I can’t forget the sight of that powerful little man going into one of his tap-dancing riffs. He is the essence of jaunty, of sticking out one’s chin and plunging into life. Was our country ever that innocent and optimistic? I replay the final scene of that movie, Cagney dancing down the steps of the White House after telling his life story to President Roosevelt, and I think yes, maybe it was.

Freeze Frame

Freeze Frame

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Before the hedge can grow the bud must disappear, must burst open and give up its life for the leaf. But before that happens there is a moment of equilibrium, just a few days in the spring when the pink of the bud and the green of the leaf are in perfect balance. At that moment, the hedge doesn’t look at all as it will this summer, dark green and shaggy. It is, instead, the frosting on a birthday cake or a young girl’s party dress. That is the moment I was trying to capture in this picture. It’s not quite there. It lacks the delicacy of the plant in person, the slight chill in the air, the sound of the birds fluttering about it.

If it turns cold, this equipoise may last till next week. But I’m not counting on it. Like so much beauty, it’s momentary. If you don’t look closely, you’ll miss it entirely.

Feed the Birds

Feed the Birds

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We haven’t fed the birds since we brought our dog, Copper, home from the Loudoun County Humane Society three years ago. Copper is part border collie, part basset hound. While he’s never harassed our beloved parakeet Hermes (who’s always in his cage, swinging from a hook in the kitchen), he does love to chase small critters in the backyard. But the snow and ice have been so brutal for wild birds that we’ve thrown some seed on the table and the deck railing. We’ve mostly had junkos, little gray things with a flash of white under their tails, so brave in the face of cold and ice, hopping the snowbanks on their little stick legs. As I watch them from the kitchen window, I think of how winter opens our eyes to what is usually hidden. It is, in that sense, the true season of renewal.

Crystal Clear

Crystal Clear

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Four days off work can set the mind to spinning, and one of the best ways to let it wander is to watch icicles as they drip and grow. Like the waves of the ocean they offer constant movement, but it is a quiet motion.
Some of the icicles are smooth and others striated. The ribbed ones glitter more brightly in the sun. I soon develop favorites. My eyes are first drawn to the largest icicle, the showoff, but to its right is a more demure pair, whose beauty now is purely positional – they are the best poised to reflect the sun. I’m also partial to the newest ones, the babies, slender and new and full of possibility.
As I stare out the window and ponder the nature of the icicle, Tom worries about our roof. Why do we have more icicles than our neighbors have, he worries. I remind him that we’ve had them before. We talk about ice dams and structural integrity and all that sort of stuff. Then he walks out of the room, and I’m back to musing. The icicle is a vertical feature in a horizontal world. It’s a way to enjoy winter without leaving the house. As I’ve been writing, the sun has climbed higher in the sky. Now all the icicles are glittering.