Who would think it possible that in this typically dry and dusty time of year we would have such a bounty of green?
On today’s walk I tried to revel in it, appreciate it. I tried to ignore the light rain that was falling even as I ambled.
It’s not the kind of summer I’m used to, but it’s the kind of summer we’ve got.
And so are the August greens.
There’s the dark, shiny green of the holly, and the springy green of the grass, still relatively weedless this time of year. The ferns add texture. Running my hands over their fronds is the way green feels.
But mostly this longest day is about how green looks: light through oak leaves, the ancient rusted tint of begonia foliage, tall green stems in the garden bearing day lily buds and brand-new coneflowers.
Out front by the mailbox a new garden bed sprouts tender morning glory stems and leaves twisting around twine, salvia, verbena and baby zinnias, too.
It’s a riot of green out there, a show of life force. I want to revel in it.
It’s out there, exposed, demanding coverage. Once sleeves are short and legs are bare, invisible protectors must come to the rescue: the creams and ointments and sprays. Sunscreen, 30, 50 or even 70. Mosquito repellent, too.
These are fine, indeed necessary, but you often don’t have them when you need them. Already I’ve had chiggers, mosquito bites, a touch of poison ivy and two spider bites.
So bring on the remedies: the calamine, hydrocortisone and witch hazel. I’d forgotten about that last one, but dabbing it on itchy skin is not only soothing but also an olfactory trip to the past, to childhood’s itches and scrapes and the more basic first-aid that fought them. (Is there anything else that smells like witch hazel?)
Now, let’s see if it makes me itch any less. It’s summer, and the living is easy. Until you roll up your sleeves.
(Photo: Wikipedia)
It’s the first post of the season that I’m writing on the deck before leaving for work. It’s warm enough to sit out here in shirtsleeves, a delicious reversal from months of chilly mornings.
The windows were open so I woke this morning to the slap of the newspaper on the driveway. An almost full moon was setting as I left the house.
It’s a different kind of day when I have a chance to walk before work — more expansive, softer around the edges, routine on the run.
So even though I should be leaving now, I take another sip of tea, linger a little longer with the birdsong and the faraway traffic noise. In a moment I’ll get up, shoulder my bag, leave the house, drive to Metro.
But not yet.
The weather will warm up here for a couple of days, a welcome development. But I’ve enjoyed what the chilly temperatures have done for our spring … which is, of course, to prolong it.
The Bradford pear trees were in fine fettle when I arrived home from Asia two weeks ago — and they’re still going strong. Forsythia and daffodils, spring’s yellow front line, are still around, too. And we’ve had a lovely run of tulips and hyacinths.
And then there are the famed cherry trees. I saw them in the Tidal Basin with Suzanne, then in the Kenwood neighborhood of Bethesda with my friends Lyn and Andrea, who were visiting last weekend. The cherries in Bethesda are planted on either side of the road, so their branches entwine to make a tunnel of blossoms. It was magical!
As we move to the next batch of bloom, I can’t resist a backward glance and a toast to the brave flowers of early spring.
Woke up this morning to whitened grass and blue birds flocking to the feeder, to the black-and-white-striped, red-headed downy woodpecker pecking at the suet block. It’s not walking weather, not yet.
A few more hours so the temperature rises past 19, so my breath won’t blind me. A few hours of mental exercise before the physical.
In the meantime I sit here in the dining alcove, as close to the backyard as I can be and not yet in it, itching to be outside.
Ah, January. I know there must be something good to say about it. Let’s see …
When I was a kid, you either had school or you did not. There was no in between. By the time I had children, the two-hour delay was well established.
In many ways it makes sense. Icy mornings often moderate, and two hours can make a big difference in the condition of roads and sidewalks. Having just driven to Metro on a day deemed too tricky for an on-time start, I can vouch that the county made the right call today.
But I can remember what a mess it was when the kids were young and school started at 11:05 rather than the (already late) 9:05. I could barely transcribe an interview before they were home again. And there’s something about the moral relativity of a two-hour delay that disheartens me. It’s mushy, especially when employed too often.
Perhaps that’s why I slogged into the office today. It was hard … but it was pure.
(We only got an inch of snow today; the photos is from 2010.)