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All Dressed Up…

All Dressed Up…

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It’s the day after Labor Day, a momentous occasion that used to strike fear and excitement in the hearts of my children and all the kiddos in this area — and equal amounts of glee and relief for their parents. 

It was a day marked with the arrival of the big yellow buses lumbering down the street and stopping at the corner, where a parade of scrubbed schoolchildren with shiny new backpacks would step into them — and be whisked off to their new lives. 

That has all changed this year with the decision to hold virtual classes only in Fairfax County. There’s little glee and relief for parents, who are trying to make their children sit still for six hours of online education.  And there are no big yellow buses plying the neighborhood streets. Caption them … “all dressed up — and nowhere to go.”

Lit From Within

Lit From Within

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Walking after dark, which I’m increasingly more likely to do these days, gives me the chance to observe neighborhood houses lit from within. 

I see the glow of bedroom lamps behind drawn shades, the flicker of television screens in living rooms, the laser-like beam above a desk in front of a window. 

While some families draw every blind, others leave windows open for all to see — the fishbowl approach to living. I try to give everyone their privacy, but I can’t help but notice the lights … and the lives lived within them.

(The turkey teapot is out-of-season, but it’s the best lamplight picture I can find right now.)

A Tree Falls…

A Tree Falls…

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I had just finished the last chapters of The Library Book — which chronicles the 1986 Los Angeles Public Library fire, which reached temperatures of 2,000 degrees F. and glowed with a white-hot light — when I was awakened by a thud and a pop. 

The thud was a 90-foot maple, its trunk leaning for years and its roots weakened by this summer’s frequent rains, finally giving up the ghost and toppling over. Next-door neighbors felt their house shake when it hit the ground. (Luckily no houses were damaged and a car that appeared to have suffered severe damage got off easier than it would have originally appeared.)

The pop was the transformer the tree took out on the way down. By the time I joined the crowd of neighbors milling around in the rainy darkness with umbrellas and flashlights, the transformer had burst into flames and half the street had lost power.

The fire fighters had to wait on the power company, and everyone had to wait for the chainsaw crew, which arrived, oh, about 3 a.m. Trucks are still idling on our street. 

A tree falls, a transformer blows, a neighborhood awakens. It was an interesting night, to say the least. 

Walkable Communities

Walkable Communities

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An article in today’s Washington Post describes what it says may be the community development of the future, as the pandemic has accelerated a trend toward telecommuting that was already in process. Called the Hub at La Plata, this mixed-use development makes it possible to walk to shops and live with one car — or even no car at all. 

An excellent idea … and one that Reston, Virginia, where I (almost) hang my hat (you can walk to Reston from here) has been practicing for more than half a century. Though the New Urbanism roots of Reston have taken a beating over the years, there is still enough of the original plan to make you see the point and offer up a silent cheer for it.

I had just such a moment yesterday, when I fast walked on one of its many paved paths. Signposts directed me to South Lakes Village Center one direction and Hunters Woods Village Center the other. I didn’t walk to either, but just knowing I could … made all the difference. 

(A photo of Lake Anne taken from the top floor of Heron House, in Reston’s oldest village center.)

Blackberry Winter

Blackberry Winter

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Though the heat and humidity are building here, for the last few days it’s felt like Blackberry Winter, which is what I grew up hearing an early summer cold snap called. Curious about this expression, I just learned from the Farmer’s Almanac that it’s primarily a southern term used to describe a bout of chilly weather that happens when the blackberries bloom.

There are lots of words like this in my lexicon, though I’m not pulling others up right this minute, language that harkens back to the deep roots of my Kentucky childhood. These turns of phrase created a world view that was part lore, part poetry and only a small part reality. For instance, I recall few blackberry blooms in my neck of the woods. It’s only since I’ve lived in Virginia that I’ve been aware of when the blackberries bloom, which is, interestingly enough, right about now!

As for the weather, it won’t be cool much longer. Already the heat and humidity are building, the rain that fell yesterday becoming steam that rises from the lawn, aromatic and ever-so-slightly suffocating, too.

Newborn Fawn

Newborn Fawn

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On my walk this morning I spotted what I first thought was a pile of speckled leaves but which on closer examination turned out to be a newborn fawn.

The little thing was curled up in a ball and trembling, his big eyes staring up at me as I walked toward him. I kept my distance, not knowing if mama was nearby, talked to him gently, visions of The Yearling and feeding him from a bottle in mind.

This was midway through my walk, but I thought about the little guy all the way to the end of the street and back, wondering if he would still be there on my return. He was — so I called Animal Control, which informed me that mother deer often leave their babies in a “safe spot” and return from them in a few hours.

Since this “safe spot” was in clear view of passerby, I made a sign asking neighbors not to disturb him. But when I went to check on him a few minutes later, the little guy had scampered into the woods to get out of the rain.

In my rush to protect him, I forgot to snap a photo, so I found this picture online (it’s exactly what he looked like). In a few weeks, this little tyke will be ravaging my garden, but for now, all I wanted to do was take care of him.

Change of Heart

Change of Heart

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When driving west on Interstate 66 last Monday, I thought about how many times I made that drive, countless trips from Virginia to Kentucky — all the thoughts I had, the fears I was fighting.

In later years, the trips were often in response to a health crisis for Mom or Dad, so I sought distractions wherever I could find them. The scenery out my window was embroidered with worry. But when I looked to the mountains,  I found relief.

It was that way this week, too. All of which is to say how much a change of scene can mean a change of heart.

Viva La Cite!

Viva La Cite!

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Into my inbox this morning comes news from Jeff Speck, whose occasional newsletter I signed up for after reading one of his books on urban planning. Speck’s headline “No, Cites Aren’t Over,” was a welcome counterbalance to my own recent post “Solace of the Suburbs.”

When the question of urban density was raised at a public hearing about transit-oriented development, Speck says he reminded people that some of the countries that have best controlled for the virus are exceptionally urban ones — Japan, Korea, Hong Kong.

Also, he says, denser cities have the most patents. “Cities exist because they solve problems,” he writes. The Black Death didn’t do much to slow urbanization and was followed in short order by the Renaissance.  “So even though much of the ruling class has slipped off to their country houses a la Boccaccio, the future still lies in walkable urban places.”

I want to believe that, too.

(From the Boston Globe via Jeff Speck’s newsletter.) 

Blossoms Remembered

Blossoms Remembered

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It’s been years since I’ve missed seeing D.C.’s famous cherry blossoms. It’s one of my own personal rites of spring — walking beneath the massed pink flowers, petals falling gently on our heads, seeing the city transformed.

There are always crowds: picnickers, photographers, little kids who stray too close to the Tidal Basin. Many people dress up for the occasion, and it’s a favorite for engagement shoots. But the clamor and craziness of it is part of the experience, as are all the times I’ve gone before with my family and with my parents years ago. Those earlier visits are with me each new year when I brave the crowds to see the blossoms again.

This year there are no tourists. Roads are blocked off discouraging congregation. Those who venture down are masked and gloved. They’re maintaining social distance.  I will not be one of them.

But I can imagine what it’s like, can take a virtual walk beneath the trees.

Solace of the Suburbs

Solace of the Suburbs

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The title of my blog has always carried with it a faint whiff of irony. The suburbs aren’t made for walking, as anyone who’s lived in them will attest. And I’ve never hidden my mixed feelings about living in the suburbs.

However … the pandemic has reminded me of urban density, suburban space — and why we ended up with the suburbs in the first place.

People moved out of urban cores for green grass and family harmony, to stretch their legs and put some distance between themselves and their in-laws. But they also moved for their health and safety, for clean air and open space.

The suburbs have no urban buzz, no throngs surging up the avenue. But if you’re looking for social distancing, the suburbs are the right place to be.