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Category: seasons

The 70s

The 70s

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This post is not about bell bottoms and polyester, the Bee Gees and disco.  It’s not about the decade of the ’70s but the temperature of the 70s, a most delightful one to walk in, talk in, be in. 

This spring we’ve had a lot of 50s and 60s, and, recently, some 80s and 90s. I was worried we might skip the 70s altogether … until this week. 

But ah, here it is, the temperature of nothingness, of skin meeting air, of long sleeves or short, of no heat or air conditioning.  The temperature of balmy breezes and wildflowers, of one layer not three. 

It’s the 70s. Bring it on! 

Feeling Sorry for Cicadas

Feeling Sorry for Cicadas

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I arrived home to the sound of Brood X, the 17-year cicadas that have been biding their time underground since 2004 and are now living the high life in Virginia and other states. 

They are funny critters, singing and mating and getting stuck on windshield wipers, where one got a free ride for a few minutes yesterday as I drove home from the Reston trails. 

The hum they make sounds like a commotion in the next county, like something big is going on somewhere else, which indeed it is. 

But as I dodged their exoskeleton carcasses yesterday on my walk, my amazement at their presence was tempered with pity for their plight. What a life …. 17 years of nothing followed by three weeks of way too much. Theirs is not a path of moderation. 

On the other hand, who am I to judge a bug? My life may seem just as strange to them.

They’re Back!

They’re Back!

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The hummingbirds are back! Once again, for at least the fourth time, exactly on April 28. Where have they been?  And how do they make their way from other climes and latitudes right back to this suburban backyard?  I don’t understand them — and perhaps that is part of their charm.

Seeing them again — at first just a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye — completes the season in a way no blooming tree or flower can. 

Because these tiny creatures aren’t rooted here; they return voluntarily. And they bring with them the jewel tones of the tropics, a whiff of the faraway.

(The photo is my own, but not from this year. And because it’s a female, not as jewel-toned.)

Redbuds!

Redbuds!

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Every year I obsess over a new type of spring bloom. This year, it’s the redbud tree. I’ve admired them forever, of course. On the long drives to Kentucky I would see wild ones blooming in the mountains, sometimes whole swatches of them coloring the hillsides.

Unlike the delicate cherries of early spring, the redbud is vibrant, bold — an azalea-hued plant that doesn’t wait till late April to show its bright color. 

I’ve photographed several of them lately and covet one for the yard. I have just the spot for it. 

Impressionistic View

Impressionistic View

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Most days I have little choice about which walk I take. I have 30 or so spare minutes, and I sandwich in a stroll between meetings and deadlines, taking the most expedient route — the one out my front door, down the main drag in the neighborhood and back.

But yesterday, I had a little more time, so I picked a paved path that runs along the Fairfax County Parkway because it afforded the best view of blooming Bradford Pear and Redbud trees. I’d been seeing white petals blowing in the breeze like so many springtime snowflakes, and I figured if I was going to see the pears, I’d better do it soon.

The parkway path provided a broad-stroke, Impressionistic view of spring, the kind seen from a distance. It made me feel as if I had traveled far, when actually I was only a few miles from home.

Easter Saturday

Easter Saturday

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I write today as the eggs are boiling, before the bulk of the cleaning starts and the cake goes in the oven. There will be 16 people here tomorrow. That’s a big gathering when the number is usually two. 

And it’s a big moment in this slow return to normalcy. It’s not exactly like the opening of the gates in Oran from Camus’ The Plague. Our experience with disease has been longer but less acute than what those poor fictional souls experienced. 

But it’s been enough, thank you very much. And our hope that this might be the beginning of the end will make tomorrow’s alleluias ring out all the louder. 

The Heat

The Heat

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For the first time in a long time, I’m warm. The windows are open, the sweater and long-sleeved shirt are peeled off and I’m sitting comfortably in short sleeves. 

The heat has roared in on a wild west wind, sending temperatures into the 70s before 10 a.m. It reminds me of a mythical beast, this heat, like something I’d heard about but wasn’t sure was real. Now that I’ve had a taste of it, I’m remembering how it limbers up the muscles and frees up the mind. How it opens doors, both literally and metaphorically. 

I’d like to think the heat is here to stay, but I know better. It’s a fickle time of year. We could have cold rain tomorrow. But at least the heat is here now. And I’m basking in it. 

Curtain Briefly Drawn

Curtain Briefly Drawn

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It was a gully washer, a cloudburst, the kind of rain that lifts worms from their snug in-ground quarters and deposits them onto the driveway. I even spotted a banana slug this morning, clinging to the siding on the front of the house.

Yesterday’s downpour was torrential at times — rain with a mission. It filled the creeks and muddied the soil. It made the forsythia pop and the skunk cabbage unfurl.

Birds loved it; the feeder was mobbed with goldfinches, sparrows, cardinals and woodpeckers. 

It felt healing, this rain, a curtain briefly drawn between winter and spring — brown boughs and cracked dirt on one side, greenness and growth on the other. 

Celebrating Crocus

Celebrating Crocus

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This morning, a celebration of crocus, of the all the new ones that have sprung up in the yard this year, apparently dormant for several years but making their appearance now thanks to time and warmed earth.

There are clumps of crocus by the street, around the tree and amidst the laurel in the front garden. They are pale lavender, rich purple and creamy white.

Though I think of crocus as shy flowers, in company they project a bright and jaunty beauty, a kind of brazen, “let’s do it” approach that makes me admire them for their bravery.

Spring Awakening

Spring Awakening

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Spring woke me up this morning. It tugged at my elbow and jostled me to consciousness earlier than I was planning. I didn’t know it was spring at the time. Only after I learned of the 5:37 a.m. vernal equinox did my early awakening make sense.

But it had to be spring, had to be something hopeful and fresh that was already about its business before sun-up. Because it didn’t rouse me with light pouring in the window. It’s still dark in these parts. And it didn’t entice me with the aroma of lilac — that shrub is far from blooming here. 

It simply filled me with the sense of wanting to be up and about — even before daybreak. Why? Because it’s spring, 2021, and it will soon be bright and warm and full of promise.