A Walker in the Suburbs

My mother, I recall, used to do it quite often — sometimes once or twice a week, to match her shoes. I do it once or twice a year, if I’m lucky.

I’m talking about changing purses, that great seasonal, female ritual (maybe male, too, I don’t want to discriminate!) in which the contents of one bag goes into another.

Sounds simple, right? But it’s not.

Because a purse has a soul, you see, a way of being carried or worn, and the Metro card spot in my woven straw-colored summer bag is completely different from the one in the my multi-pocketed black leather winter bag.

To complicate the process this year I’ve purloined a bag of Celia’s, one she loves but is not carrying  right now, college girl that she is. (A backpack or a pocket is all she needs.)

So I’ve tried to cram everything from a roomy “Mom”-type purse into a sleek younger model.

We’ll see how long it will be until I’m changing purses again!

This summer, more than any other I can remember, the yard was filled with birds. Lured by new feeders and treats they filled the mornings with song and the afternoons with excited chatter.

Now the birds are going away. Not all of them, of course. But the hummingbirds are scarce to nonexistent and the goldfinches appear in singles rather than flocks. The woodpeckers that hopped each deck pilaster to reach the peanut butter block — I haven’t seen them in weeks.

I suppose some of these creatures — most of them — are winging their way south. The last few evenings I’ve spotted Vs of blackbirds tracking southeast in the cloudless sky.

No secret what it all means. I can read a calendar, can feel the chill in the morning air. But when the birds start to vanish that makes it all terribly official.

Summer is almost over. Fall is almost here.