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Postcard Weather

Postcard Weather

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My trip to D.C. last Friday happened to be on one of those perfect late-summer afternoons. The mall was strangely empty — school’s in session, which has cut back on visitors — and those who work in the area must have taken off for a weekend at the beach.

I felt like I had the place to myself as I walked toward the Capitol, snapping a photo every few yards. I couldn’t help myself. Each view was better than the next.

This is the kind of day the postcard photographers should be out and about, I thought, before catching myself. Postcard photographers? Were there ever any? There can’t be many now given how few postcards are in circulation.

Meanwhile, I crossed Fourth, Third and First, the big white building coming into sharper focus. Snap, snap, snap. I soon had a dozen photos. Here are some of them.

House Fire

House Fire

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It happened a week ago, on an ordinary suburban Monday. No one knows exactly why yet, but there are theories: a leaky gas meter, an air conditioner clicking on, a spark that ignited a conflagration. The occupants escaped with their lives, but they lost most everything else.

I live in a neighborhood of two-story and split-level houses. This one was split-level, with a more open floor plan than most. It went quickly, despite the efforts of numerous trucks and firefighters. Neighbors say the smoke was visible miles away, and I still catch a whiff of acrid air from time to time.

The ruined house now stands sentinel on my neighborhood walks. Part of its brick front remains but the garage and rear are mostly gone. Stalactites of charred wood loom eerily from its interior. It’s a sad and bracing reminder of how quickly it can all disappear.

(Photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

Decoration Day

Decoration Day

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The graves roll with the landscape. They rise and fall with the hills that wind to the river.

I’ve seen the cemetery darkened by the low clouds of late October, seen it filled with the crisp precision of a military honor guard, seen it empty of living souls.

But yesterday I saw it bustling with loved ones, each grave decked out with a small American flag and many with flowers.

It was Decoration Day, and I was in Kentucky. I could place two pots of mums, one for Mom, one for Dad. Afterward, I snapped this shot.

Farewell, Underground

Farewell, Underground

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It took months to figure it out, but once I did, it was a constant marvel. The Crystal City Underground was a part of my life for five years, and now it will be no more, at least in its funky, mom-and-pop style.

When I worked across the street from one of its entrances, I would dash into the underground to mail a package, pick up lunch or check out a library book. The maze of tunnels also came in handy on rainy or snowy days, when I could walk warm and dry from Metro to within feet of my office.

But now, I’ve learned, no leases will be renewed in the buildings that comprised the underground (though most of it is above ground, it does give off a subterranean vibe). It’s been likened to a futuristic invention, but to me it always seemed more like the past, a place where you could get your shoes repaired and chat with the cobbler while it was happening.

Amazon has moved into the neighborhood and may have plans for the underground’s future. All I know is that, for now, one more bit of real, hands-on life is disappearing from view.

Running the Reservoir

Running the Reservoir

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The fog was so pleasant this morning when I walked outside to pick up the newspaper that I almost took a walk then and there. But duty calls, brain work beckons, and the walk will be postponed.

It will not always be this way, I remind myself. But these days I must harvest every bit of brainpower I can, and that harvest is best begun in the morning.

There was a time, though, when locomotion came first. For many years, I rolled out of bed right into my running gear, laced up my shoes and dashed around the reservoir in Central Park. What a way to start the day! It was bracing, it was beautiful, it was always a pinch-me-I’m-living-in-New-York moment.

When I ran the reservoir I forgot about the cramped room where I lived, the money I didn’t have, the extra work I did to make my editorial day job possible. My heart and lungs were full of the park and of the city that surrounded it. The run was only two miles, but at the end of it I could tackle anything.

Changes Afoot

Changes Afoot

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I grew up in a neighborhood that rang with the sounds of hammer and saw, with the building of small brick and stone bungalows. The houses weren’t large but they were well made, and when I drive through the area on visits to Lexington, I’m impressed with how well they have held up.

Construction methods have changed since then; house sizes have, too. One of my neighborhood’s best features has been the ratio of house to lot size. Split-levels and center-hall colonials are tucked away on treed lots, in some cases almost hidden among the greenery. Harmony and proportion reign. Or at least they used to.

The newest house on the block is a renovation that more than doubles the size of the previous dwelling. It dwarfs the houses around it. The owners are good neighbors who want a larger home, but this larger home is not the kind of house you normally see around here, and I fear it will open the floodgates.

McMansion subdivisions surround us. I was hoping we would never become one. Now I’m not so sure.

A Quorum

A Quorum

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It was a cold, rainy November evening; it begged for a good movie and a bowl of popcorn. But I’m glad we trudged out to the annual meeting of our neighborhood’s home owner’s association last night. Our street was by far the best represented, and there were people from other streets I hadn’t seen in years.

There was only one problem: we didn’t have a quorum. Which meant that the meeting was unofficial, for information only. We couldn’t approve last year’s minutes (oh no!) and we couldn’t vote in next year’s officers (slightly more troubling).

Apparently, though, if you miss the 40-percent quorum (in person or by proxy) the first time, you need only achieve a 30-percent quorum for the re-do. Since 30 percent of people sent in their proxy votes by mail, the slate of new officers will be approved at the board meeting next month.

And what of last night’s affair? It may not have met the minimum legal requirements, but it met the minimum social requirements. Most of us left with more fellow feeling for our neighbors, and what could be more important than that?

(A quorum of geese?)

A Richer Sensory Stew

A Richer Sensory Stew

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Last night in class we talked about the senses and how sight has stolen the show in our modern, western world. The move from an oral culture to a print one is partially responsible. But there are many other explanations — our art, our sanitation, our world views. The philosopher Descartes not only said “I think therefore I am” but also “I shall now close my eyes, I shall stop my ears, I shall call away all my senses.”

In other times and cultures, people swam in a richer sensory stew. There were drums and bells, cooking fires and open sewers. Would we want to go back? I doubt it. And yet I found myself lingering over a passage in a book about village bells, learning how they were cast by itinerant bell-makers in a community and each had its own unique sound, how they bound people to their places.

The more specialized the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures of a place, the more likely they are to embed themselves in us. When I think about growing up in Lexington, Kentucky, one of the richest memories is the aroma of curing tobacco wafting from the auction barns near the university. It’s an odor that has been banished, along with much of the burley tobacco market. Good for our health? Absolutely. But the eradication of sensory richness may not be so good for our souls.

(A garden gate in Lexington. Step inside and smell the cut grass. )

Farewell to Blogspot

Farewell to Blogspot

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On February 7, 2010, when I wrote the first Walker in the Suburbs post, I knew only that I wanted to share a few thoughts with the world. I had no idea if I could keep blogging until the end of the month. Now, almost 15 years later, it’s time to move A Walker in the Suburbs to a new home. Truth to tell, it outgrew Blogspot long ago, but until now I’ve lacked the time and will to switch sites. 

Starting tomorrow, October 1, 2024, you can find A Walker in the Suburbs here. The content won’t change, but the design is updated, and you’ll be able to subscribe and comment.

Meanwhile, as I say goodbye to this platform, I think of all that’s happened since it began, the writing I’ve done; the people who are gone and the ones who’ve just arrived; how our world has changed. 

How grateful I am to have this opportunity to connect with all of you, to share my love of walking and place. Thank you, as always, for reading. I hope you enjoy the new Walker in the Suburbs. 

Walking Distance

Walking Distance

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Yesterday, a walk with a friend. Not just any friend, but one who lives a walking distance away from my house. 

Granted, it’s a walk through the woods, and this time of year the woods are full of burrs that attach to your socks and spider webs that cling to your hair and clothes. 

But still, to be able to walk anywhere around here is a triumph. And to walk to a friend’s house … even better. It humanizes the neighborhood. It allows me to think (even fleetingly) that I live in a village instead of a ‘burb.

(A downed tree I clambered through on my walk.)