A Walker in the Suburbs

It had been five years since my last TubaChristmas concert — which I learned by checking the archives of this blog (now there’s a scary thought!)  — so that when I arrived at the Kennedy Center last night I looked for a crowd at the Millennium Stage, the free performance venue where the event had been held in the past.

That corner of the place was dark, though, because this year TubaChristmas made the big time. Still free, still an hour long, but gloriously housed and staged in the Concert Hall. There were tubas and sousaphones and euphoniums on the stage. There were tubas and sousaphones and euphoniums in the balconies. There were tubas and sousaphones and euphoniums everywhere.

Tiny lights glistened from their ample bells. Wreaths bedecked them. There were Santa hats aplenty, too — these on the players rather than their instruments. And the carols played by these lower brass were a spirited and at times out-of-sync cacophony.

It was Appolinaire’s first concert at the Kennedy Center, his first American concert of any sort. (Just about everything is his first these days!) No stern, snooty longhairs for him. Now he will think that all concerts are free, all concerts are singalong — and all concerts are joyful. Not a bad introduction!

Last night in the course of emailing about our new list my book group friends and I discovered that one of the books, Confederacy of Dunces, was on the list in 2012. It was our August pick and sometimes we skip August, so that might have been the reason.

But this brings up another advantage of hanging with the same bunch of people for years. You are growing old and forgetful together. You can tell each other that, yes, you were well into the last mystery before you realized … I’ve read this one before.

You can admit that not only must you now keep a list of all the books you read, but you must also annotate the list, add some quick phrase or note that will help you recall what each book was about.

Because the books, they come faster than the years.

Thankful for the warm air that’s moved in today. Thankful for the walk I took before everyone was stirring. Thankful that the turkey is already in the oven. Thankful that the pies didn’t totally burn up last night (they’re only slightly singed). Thankful that someone else is bringing the rolls, sweet potatoes and whipped cream.

Thankful that when I picked up the dish detergent under the sink and found it sitting atop a crushed eggshell that it made me think of an eggshell mosaic I made when I was a kid. Thankful that the eggshell mosaic recollection triggered a happy, peaceful memory of Mom, who I miss so much.

Thankful that the stuffing is made and the green bean casserole soon will be. Thankful that the clan is gathering or has gathered. Thankful for a day that’s about thankfulness.

The winds have stilled. The temperature has risen. Crows call from tree to tree. Thanksgiving has come a day early as I spend this half workday at home.

I’m glad not only because I save the three hours I would have spent commuting — which means a head start on the pumpkin pie and stuffing for the crowd of 14 that will be dining here tomorrow — but also because I have an extra day to practice gratitude.

It is, if not a muscle, at least a skill to be honed and fine tuned. One I should practice much more than I do.

A little over a year ago we were making the sad trek to Dulles Airport for Suzanne’s return flight. She would be in Africa another year before returning yesterday “for good” — or at least for a few years, which means “for good” when you’re in your 20s.

Yesterday we watched many travelers emerge from Customs into the International Arrivals Terminal — a grandma who was instantly swarmed by two young grandsons, a man whose three beaded-hair daughters yelled “Daddy” and enveloped him in hugs.

And then, finally, emerging from the door, the two we were looking for. Appolinaire in a green sweatshirt over his West African print shirt, Suzanne in a thin flowered  blouse and a colorful lanyard for her passport pouch.

It was — they were — one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. But I saw them from a distance just for an instant, because soon they were smothered in hugs, too.

More leaves have fallen than are falling. They drift up against the fence and under the azaleas. They crinkle under foot. They cluster in the garden, cushioning each chrysanthemum petal that drops quietly to the ground.

In the woods some leaves hang on, stands of red and yellow, brave flags flying. And even in the backyard a yellow poplar shimmers in the breeze.

But by this point in the season, leaves have become the enemy. They must be raked or mowed, bagged or strewn. They are duty, not poetry.

Today I’m thinking about Paris, about my dear friend Kay who has made it her home for decades. I’m thinking about the beauty of the place, the bridges and buttresses, the way the windows catch the setting sun.

I’m thinking about the forces of civilization and the forces of darkness and how their struggle is playing out across a world stage. And I’m thinking about our cities here, especially the one I now call home: the broad avenues and crisp flags flying. This city and all cities vulnerable.

Last night, watching the dazed survivors being carried to ambulances, listening to those who witnessed the horror first hand, it seemed that all was darkness, that morning would never come. Now the morning has come, but the horror is still with us. The sunlight has an edge to it and the clouds seem lower than before.

There are some advantages to living in a company town. One of them occurs on Veteran’s Day, when most of the government workforce is at home padding around in slippers and the city (or most of it) is left to the rest of us.

Yesterday First Street was almost empty as I fast-walked down to Constitution and then to Third. No one was picking up a salad at Phillip’s Sandwich Shop. No one taking a smoke break at the Hyatt service entrance.

And then … I reached the Mall.

While the rest of the city was in Sunday shut-down mode, the museum-and-monument district was bustling with life. There were babies in strollers and (seemingly a new trend) dogs in strollers. There were selfie-takers striving for just the right photograph with the Washington Monument. There were joggers and cyclists and pedicabs and double-decker buses, all in a glorious jumble. The carousel was doing a brisk business, too.

There are always two cites here, the one the tourists see and the other, workaday one. But today the boundaries between those two cities were etched in high relief.

I saved a Philadelphia memory to start the week. The destination of my Friday afternoon walk was the Philadelphia Art Museum steps. I wanted to see the Rocky statue and the view of downtown from that perch. I wanted to run up the steps.

My route wound in from the river, so I started at the top of the plaza with the tourists, those who’d already run the stairs and were pumping their arms above their heads with the Benjamin Franklin Parkway and City Hall spread out behind them.

I knew that there was a Rocky Balboa statue at the foot of the steps so I made my way to it and snapped a few shots. As I turned to do the stair climb myself, a little reluctantly — I was tired! — I saw a gaggle of high-schoolers, at least 30 or more, spring from a bus. They were moving so fast  they were a blur. But there was no mistaking it: They were racing — not running but racing — up the 72 stone steps. Behind them three or four adults — teachers, I guess — were in fast pursuit. There was no way they could catch up, but they were trying.

It was funny, it was crazy, it was one of those “life force” moments so full of energy and joy that I knew I would remember it forever. After I saw it, I had no choice but to run up the steps myself. At the top I felt breathless and happy and ready to go home.