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Holding On

Holding On

What helps the beach state remain? I’m asking myself that question today, as I feel it slipping away.

I was off to a good start on the way home: a plane so empty that each passenger had his or her own row of seats.

Then a late-day landing that showcased the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the graceful spans across the Potomac, the compact graciousness of the place.

But today there was the long commute into Arlington, the work call that came in before I reached the office, the emails, the to-dos that piled up when I was gone.

Welcome back, they say.  I try not to listen. I hold onto the beach state for dear life!

Small Fry

Small Fry

I tore through Lisa Brennan-Jobs’ memoir Small Fry in a few days. It’s honest and it’s titillating, since Lisa’s father is Steve Jobs, and his paternal behavior is quite strange, to put it mildly.

Steve has little to do with Lisa and her mother (who he never married) in the beginning, and only acknowledges paternity under duress. Eventually, he has a relationship with Lisa, albeit an unusual one. They skate together, have dinner together and in high school Lisa even lives with Steve and his wife and son. But it’s a relationship fraught with uncertainty and even meanness. Steve won’t admit he named his Lisa computer after his daughter. He belittles Lisa and refuses to pay for her last year of college. Lisa has the final word, though, in the way of all memorable memoirists.

What I liked best about Lisa’s writing was when she described the California of her youth, the sights and smells of the land she came alive to: “Here the soil was black and wet and fragrant; beneath rocks I discovered small red bugs, pink- and ash-colored worms, thin centipedes, and slate-colored woodlice that curled into armored spheres when I bothered them. The air smelled of eucalyptus and sunshine-warmed dirt, moisture, cut grass.”

It reminds me of George Eliot’s line: “We would never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.”

West of the Mississippi

West of the Mississippi

I’ll spend most of this week in Arkansas, a place that was briefly my home decades ago and is the official headquarters of my employer. It’s a work trip through and through, but it’s also a change of scene, and will put me somewhere I enjoy being … west of the Mississippi.

Crossing the Big Muddy has always been a milestone in the long drives west. The river doesn’t evenly bisect the continent, but the spirit of the country changes on the west side of the river. It loosens its shoulders, drawls a little more. It’s friendlier, too.

I’m hoping this touch of the west will rub off on me a little while I’m there. Will slow me down and loosen my shoulders, too.

My First Owl

My First Owl

The call came a little after 7 p.m. The owls are here, my friend said. Come and see them.

I’d heard about the owls last summer, how they would swoop and hoot in the woods and common lands of our neighborhood. I can hear them too, sometimes, always from across the street or down a house or two. Never close enough to see.

But last night I went right over, binoculars in hand. And there they were, two owlets and their mother. The babies sounded like catbirds, with a mewling hiss of a cry. They were hunkered down in one tree while their mother flew about searching for food.

Though they were almost as big as their parents (because a fourth owl showed up eventually, and we assumed it was the father), the babies relied on their mother for food. And she was working hard to supply it. Another neighbor wandered by and said he’d seen the mother bring the babies a bird to eat. Owls eat other birds? Yes, says the World of Owls site I consulted, birds as well as insects, rodents, amphibians and fish.

I’d never seen an owl until last night  — and then I saw four at once (though only one is pictured above, and from far away). But they looked so familiar, just like the pictures, like caricatures of themselves, which is to say feathered and big-eyed and, of course, wise.

Newly Mown

Newly Mown

An unusual Thursday working at home, but other than that, fairly typical. On my walk this morning I was hit with a wave of gratitude for the relative normalcy of my life. Not that everything is perfect, only that it’s for the most part blessedly normal.

I often feel this way when I trudge through my leafy neighborhood and see the newly mown lawns, the neatly coiled hoses, the freshly mulched trees. With one or two exceptions, the people who live here care about their property; they paint their shutters and put their trash out: Mondays for garbage, Tuesdays for recycling, Wednesdays for sticks and lawn clippings.

When we first moved here I thought the tidiness was a sign of suburban OCD.  But now it seems proof of increased property values. Something — or someone — has changed. I think it’s me!

Good Things Coming?

Good Things Coming?

My punctual and reliable Arlington bus must now make a time-consuming detour to avoid construction in my work neighborhood. You can’t walk a block without hearing jack-hammers or the truck back-up sound. Amazon’s HQ2 is already making its presence known in the dusty streets, the demolition, even the scaffolding.

Having lived for five years in New York City, I consider myself a scaffolding expert. Not in the sense of knowing how to construct it, but in the sense of knowing how to walk beneath it, which used to be… gingerly.

With all due respect to Big Apple scaffolding, the Crystal City version is cleaner, sturdier — and kinder on the eyes and the feet.

In New York, I felt as if I was taking my life in my own hands to walk in a dark tunnel beneath a contraption of wood and metal. But the pedestrian walkway I take now is open and bright. It even has motivational phrases on the walls: Good Things Coming, it says.

Let’s hope.

Fortunate Day

Fortunate Day

I was waking up slowly when the sound of a falling branch catapulted me into full consciousness. It’s a hazard of living in the midst of a waning suburban forest, a place where the old oaks have outlived their three score and ten.

This time we seem to have been spared. It was either a branch from the common land, or a smaller limb off the tree in our yard that’s already slated for demolition next time the tree guy comes around.

But the swoosh and thud did serve as a rousing alarm. It got me up and into the morning, where I took a delicious amble through humid air and young birds doing that little looping fly that is so endearing.

A day that begins with an early walk, no matter how one comes by it, is a fortunate day indeed.

The Detour

The Detour

They’re working on Fox Mill Road, the quasi thoroughfare, quasi byway that links me to Metro and beyond. Conveniently, the detour starts just beyond my neighborhood, so at least for now the way home and back is clear. What isn’t convenient is that the detour runs right through my neighborhood.

Which meant that last night wasn’t the best evening to go for a post-dinner stroll. Still, that’s what I did — complete with headlamp and reflective vest.

It was busier than a typical Monday evening. I found myself stepping off the road more times than I would like. But even the higher-than-usual car volume couldn’t mar the peaceful evening, couldn’t banish the night sounds, lift the heavy air or blunt the honeysuckle scent that almost overpowered me at the corner.

The walk was my detour, too, a departure from my normal routine, my own diversion from the day.

Good Fortune

Good Fortune

Though I call this blog A Walker in the Suburbs, my feelings about suburbs are decidedly mixed. I appreciate the greenswards, the sound of spring peepers in the night air, downy woodpeckers at the bird feeder. I chafe at the driving culture, the isolation, the lack of community.

Alice Outwater’s Wild at Heart (mentioned last week, too) is reminding me why the suburbs once seemed like Shangri-La. In the late 19th-century, human waste was stored in cesspits and removed by horse-drawn wagons. The horses that pulled those wagons produced millions of pounds of manure, which collected in the streets.

“In 1900 there were well over 3 million urban horses in the U.S., and those city horses deposited enough manure to breed billions of flies, each one a potential vector for disease,” Outwater writes.

No wonder people moved out of the cities into what must have seemed like heaven. Grass, trees, manure that was manageable. Walking Copper this morning, I reflected on my good fortune.

Foxy Morning

Foxy Morning

As I begin this post, Copper is barking his head off. And for once, I don’t blame him. He did the same thing yesterday, also for good cause.

The culprit is a plump and prissy red fox, who trots through the neighborhood this time of day as if he owns the place. Today he entered the yard from the west and Copper spied him as he was about to slip through the back fence.

Yesterday was even worse. Before leaving our yard, the fox paused and looked back, as if he was taking the measure of the 30-pound hound yapping on the deck — and found him lacking. Copper may have sensed the scorn. I could swear there was some righteous indignation in his response.

For those who don’t parse his barks as I do, it was just that crazy Copper, waking them up again.  But I know the truth. It was really just … a foxy morning.

(Photo: Wikipedia)