A Walker in the Suburbs

It’s been a wet May. Today is too drippy to walk, but a few days ago I slipped between the raindrops and strolled through a moist and fragrant landscape. It was the ordinary world silvered into a new state of being.

Every broad leaf or outstretched bough held on its surface gleaming drops of rainwater. I had fun trying to photograph them. I was never able to capture their freshness or fragility, their glitter or gleam. What seemed like diamonds now look like water spots.

I have no illusions of photographic greatness. But snapshots jog the memory. When I look at the pictures I snapped that damp Thursday, I remember the freshness of the morning, the quicksilver beading of the raindrops, the whole sensory experience of the walk. And that’s the point of it all.

I managed to avoid most of Monday’s news until midday Tuesday, when I braved the cold to pick up the newspaper at the end of the driveway. I brought it inside, holding it by its edge, as if it might be slightly radioactive, then in a burst of bravery pulled it from its plastic sleeve and took a glance.

My first impression was of a state funeral: the somber expressions, the black clothing. I began to read and felt my blood pressure rising. It was too early in the day to be upset, so I put the newspaper aside.

I accept the results of the 2024 election, the will of the people. I seldom discuss politics in this blog. But for me and for many, there is a very real problem. Well, there are many real problems, but the one I want to mention here is this one: What do I do about the news?

I’m a journalist by trade. For years we had two daily newspapers delivered to the house. We still have one, an indulgence that’s beginning to feel like a flagellation. I believe it is our duty as citizens to be informed about the workings of the country.

As usual, though, the devil is in the details: How informed? And by whom or what? I’ll figure this out eventually, I hope, but for now, all I have is a question: What do I do about the news?

What to do on a snow day? There are the outdoor activities — shoveling, snow sculpting, or just trudging to the end of the block and back. There are the indoor activities: making soup, cleaning closets and curling up on the couch to watch the flakes fall.

And then there is the modern, plugged-in version of a snow day: blogging and spreading the word about my latest book review, which entailed setting up a profile on Blue Sky Social (an X alternative). Yikes! That has taken up more time than I’d like it to this morning.

With that box checked, I plan to sink more deeply into the day, to enjoy all the transformations that snow can bring.

It’s not just that we’ve had little measurable snow these last few years, it’s that for the most part we’ve lacked even the promise of it, that delightful drumbeat of suspense that can accompany a snowstorm.

One of my favorite ways to enjoy blizzards in the past would be to complete all out-of-the-house errands before the first flakes fell, then plop myself down in front of a local news broadcast and watch cheerful reporters decked out in their most stylish parkas and hats, telling us what we could expect.

I’m out of practice in that area. Besides, a new forecasting powerhouse is in town: the Capital Weather Gang, the Washington Post‘s coterie of meteorologists. I think it’s fair to say this crew is pro-snow. Which is not to say their forecasts aren’t accurate; they are usually spot-on, and they cite the models (who knew there were such things?) upon which they’re based.

Still, I detect a barely-restrained glee when there’s white stuff in the forecast. And why not? It’s been a while since we’ve had a good dousing. But from what I’ve read, that may change … soon.

(This snow photo was taken almost five years ago.)

I’ve barely had time to tie my shoes lately, let alone nurture my creative self. But yesterday I found myself at an appointment close to the W&OD Trail, the rails-to-trails path that leads from suburban D.C. to the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The section I usually cover is between miles 16 to 19, the Reston area. But yesterday I ventured west, past mile 20, walking through the town of Herndon, with its old-fashioned downtown and fortnightly library (named for a group of 19th-century women whose study club met every two weeks).

I meandered off the trail a few times to see a neighborhood, enter the library, and browse in a thrift store. In other words, I explored. I went places I hadn’t been in a very long time and, if only for a few minutes, lost myself in them.

It didn’t take long for the to-dos to crowd back in again, but for two hours yesterday, I was free.

(You never know who you might meet on the W&OD Trail.)

I can’t remember when I bought it, but for at least five years this steadfast bag has held my stuff, held my life, if you want to know the truth. It’s kept me organized, kept me sane. When I needed a card or a tissue or a pen, I knew just where to look for one, courtesy of its organized interior.

It’s not fancy. It’s not leather. But I could wash it and it weighed nothing (until I filled it up with too much stuff).

Inside was a wallet, slots for cards, an inner pocket and not one but two pen-holders. I noticed in the newer model of this bag, the one I bought just a few days ago, that the pen-holders have vanished. A sign of the times, I suppose.

But most of the other organizing tools are there, and, best of all, it’s brand new. Still, I’ll miss the old purse, its subtle shade of blue, its faux quilting. I’m thinking of all the places it’s been, all it’s seen me through. So here’s a toast to this old bag. May it rest in peace.

Today we leave Madeira, a place set apart in so many ways. At a museum of photography a few days ago we saw a promotional film about the island that was made more than a hundred years ago. It had the choppy movements of early movies, and the narration was dubbed in later. 

There were the carreiros pushing toboggans down the hillside. There were men fishing, women embroidering, and flowers everywhere. Long-ago tourists were greeted with bouquets.

Things have changed since then, of course, but the warmth of the welcome has not changed. Madeira made us feel at home from the minute we stepped on its soil. Mostly because of the family and friends who make their home here, but also because of the place itself. 

The film was titled “Madeira: Pearl of the Atlantic.” Now I understand why. 

(Sunrise on our last full day in Madeira.)