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A Day in the City

A Day in the City

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My sister, Ellen, was the pioneer. She moved to New York City first. I was next. Then my brother Phillip. Within two years, three of the four kids in my family were living in the Big Apple. Now none of us do.

But we haven’t gotten it out of our systems (does anyone ever?), so today Ellen and I take our daughters to the big city to celebrate their birthdays. We’ll walk through Times Square, the Village, Chinatown. We’ll shop, snap photos and take in a show. We will have more money in our pockets than we did in the old days. (That isn’t hard to do.) And we won’t walk as fast. But we will be more or less the same. And that’s something to celebrate.

The Cottage

The Cottage

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Last evening I walked by this house. It’s my favorite in our neighborhood and, as I just learned from a real estate circular, it “SOLD in 7 Days!” It’s one of the smaller models in our subdivision and has an ordinary lot. What makes this house special are the window boxes, the white picket fence, the wrap-around porch and the English cottage garden. In other words, details. Put enough of them together, though, and you have a place that is charming and comfortable and old-fashioned. Ah yes, I have a crush on this house.

The Power of the Porch

The Power of the Porch

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Tonight I was on one of my brief after-dinner strolls when our neighbors called from across the street. They’ve just finished a front porch across the width of their house and they wanted me to see it. So I sat on their porch swing and we talked for 45 minutes. This is remarkable because in 21 years it’s the longest conversation I’ve had with Bob and Donna. In our suburb, as in many, backyard decks and patios are where you sit outside on a pleasant evening. Imagine all those people suddenly flipped, sitting in front of their houses where they can see their neighbors, rather than behind. Then multiply this by millions of people across the land — and you have one way to build community, to bring us face to face with the people we live closest to.

The City at Night

The City at Night

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Two nights ago, when the moon was full, we drove downtown in a red convertible to see the sights. The wind whipped our hair, and even with jackets on we were chilly. As we crossed the 14th Street Bridge, the city swung into sight. The Washington Monument, the Lincoln, the White House, the Capitol. Every building white against the inky night sky. Our niece, Liz, snapped photo after photo from the back seat; it was her first visit.
Suddenly the city that is our steady spouse, our workaday companion, became our lover — dark and sparkly and full of life.

Little Voices

Little Voices

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Just as there are seasons of the suburban street — the rumble of school buses in the fall; the melody of ice cream trucks in the summer — so too is there a life cycle over time — the years of baby cries, followed by those of bicycle tires slapping the pavement, of squeals and yells and parents calling and yesterday (I don’t know from where but I heard it) a dinner bell. 

 For years our street has been quiet. Our children were some of the youngest on the block and when the older kids of neighboring families moved out our kids were left behind to make their own fun. 
 Now a new generation is on the rise. Boys on bikes, girls on scooters, babies in prams. It makes me feel old — and young — at the same time.
Local History

Local History

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When my dad was a boy, he snuck out one night to hear Ella Fitzgerald at a dance club a few blocks from his house. It was a black jazz club; whites were allowed only upstairs at the bar. My dad was 12 at the time, so he wasn’t allowed in it all. But he remembers standing outside and listening to Ella, and a few months ago, he looked for the building. Here it is, a shadow of its former self, but still standing. While we were looking around the property, the owner pulled up in his truck and told us that before it was a jazz club, the oldest part of the building was a steam-powered hemp factory.

You can love a place without knowing much about it, but if you know about a place, if you learn its past and its stories, how can you not be attached?

Devil May Care

Devil May Care

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It’s the first Saturday in May, a day to drink mint juleps, sing “My Old Kentucky Home” and watch the horses run. Strong storms are predicted for Churchill Downs, which means that Devil May Care, a filly whose owner my parents met last weekend, will have to run well in the mud to win the 136th Kentucky Derby. I hope she does, because of the faint connection, because she’s a girl and because I like her name. (This is the, ahem, highly scientific method by which I usually choose a horse.)

Devil May Care makes me think about going for broke. It’s the rakish tilt of a fedora, a whiff of cigarette smoke, the swirl of bourbon in a highball glass. In a world of highly regulated outcomes, chance draws us like a magnet. Who wants to know how every race will end? Who doesn’t long for surprise? When the track is muddy, it’s more likely that you’ll see a most improbable horse, a long shot, perhaps a filly, streaking along the rail or swinging wide on the outside. The cheers will be deafening, the mud will be flying and a horse, a horse whose name we don’t yet know, will be running her heart out, racing for the finish line.

Down and Out

Down and Out

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“We’re just homeless people, trying to keep ourselves together,” said the woman as I passed her this morning. “One of these days we’re gonna live in a house again, just like you.” I often see homeless people on my way to Georgetown Law, but this woman and the two others walking with her were sane, dressed for work, in a hurry. Just like me.

When I walk in the suburbs, I write about trees and flowers and reflections in the rain. When I walk in the city, I write about people, the down and out as well as the up and coming. Walk in the city for long and it will break your heart.