A Walker in the Suburbs

The sound of summer walking is a slap and a dash, a flip and a flop. It’s the sound of sandals hitting pavement, of rubber soles and seasoned toes, of an extra beat when the shoe hits the foot after it hits the road, as if it’s talking back— which in a way it is. It’s screaming “summer”!

The flip-flop is the footwear of the season, especially to and from the beach and pool. Its only anchor is the thong that passes between the big and second toe, which takes some getting used to every summer, some toughening up. But once the callus forms, the flip-flop seems to become part of the foot, a no-nonsense auxiliary, the least amount of sole you can have between foot and ground.

In some countries, flip-flops seem to be the only footwear. No laces to tie, no Velcro to attach. The toe thong does the trick. But for those of us who live in more northern climes, the flip-flop is reserved for summer, and for that reason, at least for me, associated with freedom.

The flip-flop is the soul of simplicity, the footwear equivalent of the screen door. Pair the two for summer bliss.

Solstice arrived yesterday in the wee hours, but I slept through the meteorological moment. Today I woke at early light and was walking before my eyes were fully open.

At winter solstice we rejoice because days grow longer. At summer solstice it’s better to forget how quickly it will be winter solstice again. Instead, to remember how many long days we still have. Summer twilights linger. Summer dawns, too.

The season is just coming into its own. We have more day lily buds than day lilies.

There are the longest days. I plan to savor them.

March has never been my favorite month. I can think of at least one occasion, early in this blog’s history, when I slandered it mightily, and I’m sure there are others.

March is fickle, March is erratic. You can’t count on March for much of anything …. except variety.

So why have I, lover of variety and change and novelty, turned my back on this month? Because it can be the dregs of winter and only a tease of spring, for starters. I’ve had my reasons and they’ve been good ones.

But after decades of living in Virginia, I’ve come to terms with March. The climate has warmed and flowers and trees bloom for most of the month. Forsythia, cherries, Bradford pears, flowering quince, snow drops, daffodils, hyacinths, and sometimes, as we close in toward April, the first violets.

Yesterday I walked the Turquoise Trail, and thought about this month, the only one named for a gait. That alone is reason to celebrate. So here, on the twenty-sixth day of thirty-one, I raise my glass, my cup of tea, to March.

Spring arrives at 10:46 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time. Today we’ll have more than 12 hours of daylight. It’s the vernal equinox, when I always think of Dad.

Today we’ll have more light than darkness, more warmth than cold. Today we’ll say goodbye to snowcrete and the Polar Vortex.

Just in time, I can stop wearing gloves, which I donned as recently as a few days ago. Just in time, I can turn my face to the sky (slathered with SPF 50, of course).

“Just in time” implies that I would explode or something if we had to endure more winter weather. And of course, I would not. I would put my head down and keep going.

Nevertheless, it’s been a long, cold winter. At times this season it’s seemed like winter would never end. But today, at least meteorologically, it has. And just in time.

I seldom think of my body as a well-oiled machine, but the sleep disruption brought about by one hour of “springing head” makes me wonder. We were dodging bullets in a war, jumping in cars to avoid being hit. According to the dreamscape, I was in Afghanistan, but the Iran war must have been the trigger. That and the strange new evening light.

Hopeful that it’s just a one-night readjustment I turn to the more important matter at hand. Our time change Sunday ushers in the season of light. How often at the end of summer do I kick myself for not enjoying it more, not being out in it every minute I can.

Outside-after-dinner, I call it. I saw folks enjoying it last evening, neighbors on bikes or on foot, working in a walk after supper but surprised by the sudden darkness. Though it was light till 7:30, spring twilights aren’t as long as summer ones.

Every year this time I’m reluctant to leave my winter cocoon. Aside from shoveling snow, there are few outdoor tasks in January and February. But March brings back the gardening to-dos. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed.

Still, we’re on the move. We’ve rounded the corner. The sun is on our side. We are once again in the season of light.

(Miniature daffodils are already blooming in the front garden.)

Over the weekend we stepped into March. In my neck of the woods, weathers were reversed. It was Saturday, the last day of February, when temperatures hit the mid-60s, and yesterday, March 1, when they slipped back to their more wintry ways.

But who cared? The children I was with acted like it was still in the 60s. They wore shorts and dresses and sweaters, no coats. They raced around the playground until their cheeks were rosy with the cold while this adult stood bundled in a parka.

It made me think about the nature of youth, its energy and drive, how it fills the sails, puffs them out; how it moves us forward. For many years we don’t realize that youth is what’s propelling us. Then, we must propel ourselves: through optimism, through grit, through hanging out with little folk who need no coats.

Surely there is nobility in these early days of winter. Bare trees reach heavenward, their trunks a model of verticality. Nothing is wasted or feigned.

My eyes seek the green of ground covers and firs, the splash of morning light on a tall oak. They look for color in December’s pale grays and blues. They find something else, something leaden and true, what winter reveals, which is the essence of things.

It’s a new month, winter’s first. I feel its power in my bones.